


Hey Baby, Slip between my Beta-Pleats and get to know my Alpha-Helix?

by Anonymous



Series: starkerforlife6969 [6]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Tony, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, College AU, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Feminization, Fluff, Fraternities & Sororities, Heat Arrangements, Hurt/Comfort, Knotting, Luxury, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mild Angst with a happy ending, Omega Peter, Precious Peter Parker, Rich Peter, Size Difference, Size Kink, Student AU, Student Peter, Student Tony, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Underneath all that pretentiousness, rich tony, spoilt peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-19 06:37:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20652812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Even though Tony can't tell the difference between Manolo Blahnik and Jimmy Choo, Peter really has no other choice.His heat is around the corner, so even though he loathes the party-going, booze drinking, smug playboy know-it-all that is Tony Stark-He'll just have to do.





	Hey Baby, Slip between my Beta-Pleats and get to know my Alpha-Helix?

**Author's Note:**

> This has been...an insane labour of love. We have worked so hard on this and honestly, we just hope you have as much fun reading it as we had writing it. 
> 
> So there's 30k+ words waiting for you- take a second. Run and get some water, some snacks, get comfy in your bed (this isn't going anywhere ;)), make sure the blankets are just right- adjust the screen brightness- and most importantly
> 
> Enjoy 
> 
> x

Tony knows he’s not really licensed to be in this far, but sue him, how often do you get to explore a sorority? 

The smell is phenomenal. It’s making him a little hard, truth be told, but he’s _Tony Stark _and if anyone catches him with a boner, really, it’s just part of his reputation. He’s actually very proud of his sex tape collection on Porn Hub. The comments are a wonderful ego boost (not that he needs it). Besides, the scowl his father gives him every time he goes home makes him feel rather viciously _good. _

The sororities are always much cleaner than the frats, and Kappa Kappa Tai is no exception. There are twinkly lights strewn up everywhere, and insane chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and pink fluffy carpets. This is one of the most exclusive sororities in the world, for only the richest omegas, and that means the guest list is pretty tight- but, as always, Tony’s been invited.

Obviously. He’s only the most eligible Alpha on campus, who wouldn’t-

“What are _ you _ doing up here?” Comes an accusing voice, and Tony turns to see- of course.

“Princess,” he greets slyly, offering a two-fingered salute to Peter Parker, who’s just come out of what must be his bedroom. Damn, what Tony would do to see what it was like inside- for now, he settles for dragging his eyes over the boy. Peter’s gorgeous, there’s no point denying it, as annoying and prissy as he is. If it wasn’t for his personality, Tony’s sure he might be in love with him. 

But he doesn’t like to dwell on hypotheticals.

Tony has looks _ and _brains, and he needs someone on his level. 

But it doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate the view. Peter’s dolled up for the party (but when _ isn’t _ he dolled up?) in a thin white dress with fur along the hems. It makes his skin looks positively edible. His perfect curls are tinged with silver highlights today, and the halo hangs over his head. The theme is _ Heavenly Bodies _and this angel fits the bill. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” He winks.

Peter glowers at him, crossing his arms and huffing. “You’re not allowed to be up here, Anthony. Who even invited you?”

He shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s not my fault I’m irresistible.”

“Irresistible?” Peter scoffs, rolling his eyes in a way that irks Tony. “_Hardly_. What are you even supposed to be?” 

Tony glances down at his casual outfit and raises an eyebrow. “I’m sin, can’t you tell?”

“No effort. Bare minimum. Wow, you _ must _ be cool,” Peter drawls sarcastically, hips swaying as he walks towards the stairs. Tony can’t help but stare as those white heels click-clack against the floor. He catches himself ogling, and instead decides to glare at the back of Peter’s head, and hurries after him. 

“I am cool, actually-”

“_So _ cool,” Peter agrees easily, not even looking at him, and Tony fumes. Another Alpha is lying at the bottom of the stairs, rolling around drunkenly and Tony reaches out to steady Peter in case he trips. His hand curls around the smaller boy’s shoulder, and he’s a little struck by how silky smooth the skin is there- how his hand could envelope him whole- when Peter elegantly slips out of his grip and gracefully skips over the drunken Alpha. He smiles sweetly at Tony. “Don’t touch what you can’t afford, Tony,” he whispers with a wink, and Tony can’t help the startled laugh that bubbles out of his throat.

“I think out of all the Alphas here, I’m probably one of the only ones who _ could _afford-”

“Holy shit! Are you two together?” The drunk Alpha cheers, “_finally! _Bruce owes me $20-”

“We are not together!” The two of them say in unison. 

“Me and Tony?” Peter continues, looking remarkably unruffled. “First off: ew. Do these Chanel kitten heels look like they walk beside an Alpha who was once so hungover he fell asleep face-first in an ants nest? I don’t think so.” He flicks a curl and struts off.

Tony turns to the drunk Alpha who looks sad at the news he hasn’t won his bet. Tony wonders just how many bets there are about him and Princess Peter, He wants to laugh. Him and that high maintenance little minx? _ Hardly. _“Don’t worry champ,” he soothes, patting the Alpha on the back, “there are other bets to win.”

The alpha looks devastated. “But you two are _ perfect _for each other,” he says emphatically and Tony laughs.

“Me and Petey? Not in this lifetime.”

* * *

Peter considers himself to be a fairly intelligent person. He has perfect grades, a 4.0 average and is always at the top of his class. He has book smarts, street smarts _ and _ dresses smart.

So, it’s safe to say he’s pretty savvy, And, not being a total idiot, it’s not very often that he finds himself in, what you would call a predicament. He has money. He has resources. Even without those, Peter possesses the wiles to have any fool wrapped around his finger with a coy curl of his finger. 

But the calendar doesn’t lie. For all of his common sense Peter finds himself with only weeks until his heat is due completely partnerless. Without any further action he will spend the week alone and miserable.

Sure, he could go into one of those sterile sanctioned heat rooms or hire an alpha through an agency but he’s not a _ boor _. 

Without a chosen partner he finds himself in just that, a predicament. 

It’s not as easy as the books and movies make it out to be, find an available alpha you don’t hate and make merry for a week. There are sensibilities to take into account, okay? Like, it’s not that Peter is selective, per se, but most alphas _ stink _ and the closer it gets to his heat, the worse it gets. 

There, he said it. Most alphas smell like regurgitated cheetos and the ones that don’t are either already bonded, same-designation oriented, or _ profoundly _ unrefined.

It’s a real dilemma. He’s already vetted most of the available alphas on campus and, in a moment of despair, even scrolled through the listings on HeatHelper but has come up naught. 

He’s not _ fussy_, Peter tells himself. There’s nothing wrong with refusing to settle, he affirms again, reclining further into the soft cushions of the sun lounge, flicking the page of his book over with a manicured finger. 

Besides, he muses, peering over the top of his book to observe the group of young alphas playing football on the field. If it were up to a typical knot-head grub to take care of him he’d probably be living in squalor, living off cup ramen and wearing discount shirts from Target.

But the fact still stands: he’s a single omega who needs to find a suitable alpha quick-smart, lest he spend another seven days miserable and sore. It’s not even hyperbole. The last heat he’d spent alone he snapped his favourite dildo clean in half with his voracious riding and lost seven pounds, too sad and sorry to feed himself. It wasn’t cute. Especially considering that curves had been in season. 

It’s all Harry’s fault, anyway. Friends since their freshman year of high school, he’d always been available for Peter’s bi-yearly heats. He’d even been there when Peter presented, horrified fascination at the slick covering their shared mattress and all. 

Despite feeling no considerable attraction to the alpha, Harry was the perfect combination of handsome and debonair, smart enough to keep up with Peter and a sense of humour to boot. He wasn’t a perfect mate but to hell if he wasn’t good company. Peter didn’t need anything else.

Well, he _ hadn’t _ needed anything else.

Unfortunately for Peter, the omega who currently occupied Harry’s bed these last few months didn’t quite approve of their friends-with-benefits arrangement. Thus, the _ lol sorry good luck, yell if u need _ text Peter has received a few days prior. He remembers staring unblinkingly at the message, weighing his options - or lack thereof.

It’s fine, Peter thinks, scanning through his textbook. He makes notes with his glitter-pen, furry end pleasantly brushing under his chin as he writes ink-laden annotations in his exercise book. Something would come along.

He gets distracted in his note-taking, dubiously eyeing the end-of-chapter quiz when something solid skims past him, landing with a thud by his hip. A wayward football collects dew as it rolls under his chair, and Peter watches it come to a stop with mild disdain. The initials _ T.S. _ are marked in black sharpie on its side.

He makes no move to pick it up but it turns out he doesn’t need to. Anthony Stark strides over not a moment later, the alpha panting with exertion, face flushed. Patches of sweat darken his threadbare grey shirt and his knees streaked with dirt.

“Your Majesty,” the alpha bows mockingly as he scoops up the football from the grass.

“Anthony,” Peter acknowledges stiffly, pointedly turning his attention back to his book. 

The other man either doesn’t get his signal or outright ignores it. Instead of taking his ball and leaving Tony shuffles on the spot and holds the ball out towards Peter's face. The sight of his soil-covered fingers makes Peter recoil in disgust.

“You wanna join the small folks and play, shortstack?”

Peter looks at him incredulously, knocking Tony’s hand away with his wrist. 

“Is that a joke?” he scoffs. “I know you’re barely a step above a slobbering animal, Tony, but I have a manicure. I just applied _ lotion _.”

He holds his hand up for Tony’s consideration, going for haughty and condescending, but it only encourages the smile on the alphas face to widen.

“Well, I just thought you were waiting for an opportunity to handle my balls, so --”

“Good_ bye _, Anthony, you can go now,” Peter interrupts with a tone of finality, nose scrunching up as the alpha's potent scent begins to drift towards him. “And for god's sake put on some deodorant.”

The shit-eating grin on Tony’s face doesn’t fade as he bows again, arm extended out to the side, football clutched to his chest.

“As you wish, Princess,” Tony says with an exaggerated flutter of his eyelashes, departing with his usual two-fingered salute and running back to his friends. The arrogance makes Peter’s blood boil.

That’s all it is, Peter thinks, shifting in his seat as the alpha's scent lingers. It’s pervasive; all musk and sweat, salt in the air, and it bothers him that it doesn’t bother him. He definitely doesn’t watch the pendulous sway of Tony’s hips as he meets back with his friends, or the way his thick fingers grip the football. 

He definitely does not lower his heart-shaped sunglasses to casually observe Tony peeling off his sweat-dampened shirt - and if he licks his lips whilst looking at Tony’s bare torso, the dampened hair that runs down his defined chest, well, it’s just a mere coincidence. The guy is at least well-built, his scent incredibly verile - maybe Tony would be --

Peter shakes his head, immediately shutting down that thought where it began. Good lord, he must have sunstroke, because that would be a damn disaster. The memory of their first meeting plays through his head, back when they used to be complete strangers. Their hands had brushed as they both aimed for the same book in the library. It was off-curriculum, a non-fiction historical autobiography comprised of over a thousand pages - notoriously not for the faint of heart.

It was the only copy owned by the campus library - the wide-eyed coincidence was sweet until Tony had taken a good sniff, passing the copy over to Peter in deference to his status.

Maybe that might make any other omega weak-kneed and starry-eyed, but Peter was not any other omega. 

He doesn’t care about how smart or attractive Tony Stark is. Peter needs an alpha who is willing to challenge him when he needs it, rather than yield to his proclivities on any given day. 

Not that it’s any great loss, anyhow. The guy wears band tees unironically and poorly hides his limp, greasy hair under beanies for goodness sake. Peter’s sure he doesn’t even own _ conditioner _.

The absence of any good wardrobe and hair routine is the real travesty, Peter thinks, shaking his head and turning back to his book. If he’d had more conviction and wasn’t so keen on hobo-couture Tony might have had potential.

So, if he stays longer in his chair to bask in the weirdly comforting scent, then it’s no ones business but his.

He needs more iced tea.

* * *

The smell is bothering him.

Arms folded over his chest, Peter observes his bedroom at large, nose scrunched as he tries to locate the source of the stench. It’s infuriating, is what it is. He’s taken to sniffing the air in random moments like a dog these last few days, the strange scent that came in waves days before growing steadily more pervasive.

He doesn’t understand. His room is immaculate. Where is the smell _ coming from _?

He takes to twitching his nose in odd directions, lifting knick-knacks from their perch, skimming through pages of books, raising and rearranging his bed sheets which are as clean as the last time he checked them. Frustration mounts as he fails to pinpoint where the out-of-place scent is coming from.

“You’ve actually lost your mind,” Loki drawls, flipping through a magazine and sprawled on Peter’s antique rococo chaise lounge. Peter frowns in his direction, eyes narrowing.

“You don’t smell that?”

“What, the stench of Coco Mademoiselle and sexual frustration?”

Peter points an accusing finger at his friend. “Loki Laufeyson, you put that name back in your mouth right now - you _ know _ any perfume under $3000 gives me a rash.”

Loki blinks. “You’re not going to address the part about being sexually frustrated?”

“And give you the satisfaction?” Peter sniffs, catching the thread of the scent trail and following it to his wardrobe. He flings the double doors open with a satisfyingly dramatic squeak of its hinges.

“Not all of us have a meathead alpha at their beck and call,” Peter mutters, mostly to himself as he shuffles hangers aside to get to the bottom of it, fabric flying in his face with his haste. It’s much more pungent in here, the trapped scent flowing out like steam, hitting Peter all at once.

He vaguely hears Loki asking him something about a meathead as his nostrils flare - _ there _. The hem of his McQueen pencil skirt stretches as he crouches down, thighs spread slightly for balance as he reaches for the jewellery case he stowed away on a lower shelf.

The lower drawer catches before it frees, sliding smoothly to a stop, presenting a collection of Peter's pearls. His mouth waters as the scent invades his senses, hands trembling as they reach out to grab the bracelet he’d worn at the _ Heavenly Bodies _ party. 

Something in him eases, like table legs collapsing as he brings it to his face to smell. It’s like coming home, all mid-winter warm, roaring fire, all -

Wait.

He nearly drops the accessory on the floor as he remembers the last time he wore it, a nauseating neon highlight reel - recalling how Tony had automatically clutched at his wrist to steady him as some half-drunk beta had barrelled past Peter at that party. He recalls sneering at the basal protective behaviour, snatching his wrist back from Tony’s firm grip, skin hot from his touch.

So, why did it smell so damn _ good _? 

Other than - oh. 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

Peter's whole body clenches in dual denial and resignation, the injustice and disgrace of it all causing his hands to fist in frustration. Stepping back he closes the wardrobe doors with a satisfying slam, nearby crystalware quaking with the force. 

This cannot be happening to him. Of all people - Peter is a good person. He does his homework, gives to charity, paid his taxes for that one day he worked a few years ago. He doesn’t deserve this indignity.

_ Tony Stark _?

Peter takes a moment to breathe, to consider the implications and be reasonable. It could be worse, right? At least Tony is smart and...kind of nice? With a little work the alpha _ could _ be suitable, even if he wears Birkenstocks unironically and sometimes doesn’t wash his hair or shirts for a week and acts like a total jock - 

Peters bottom lip protrudes in a pout as he stomps his foot against the plush carpet. He has a _ type _, dammit.

“Um,” Loki comments from behind, the shutting slap of the magazine enough to relay his entertainment.

Deep breaths, Peter reminds himself, only serving to inhale the heady scent even more than before. This is bad. This is Peter’s actual worst nightmare come to life, he thinks, his dick inexplicably stirring.

“Is Tony Stark single?” Peter queries faintly, sitting himself inelegantly onto the carpet and bringing the piece back to his nose for inspection. And yep - he’s hard.

“How the fuck would I know, dear?” Loki murmurs, but Peter can see him texting someone nonetheless to get him an answer. No matter how much he grumbles, the other omega is a steadfast friend to Peter. Their answer arrives with the audible vibration of Loki’s phone.

“Thor says: painfully, pathetically so,” Loki reads, snorting to himself. “Why d’you wanna know?”

Peter pointedly doesn’t answer, reverently placing the bracelet back in the drawer, hoping to seal the scent and hating himself for it. 

“Pete, why do you want to know?”

He walks over to Loki and smiles innocently, batting his eyelashes. “You look so _ pretty _ today, Lo. I like what you did with you hair - and your eyeliner is perfect! Gosh, I wish I had your steady hands.”

Reaching forward, Peter twirls a finger through a silky black lock of hair, tucking the wayward strands behind his friend's ear. When he leans back his friend doesn’t appear to be remotely mollified, the omega's mouth pressed in an unimpressed line.

“I love that you think you could fool me of all people,” Loki utters. “What is it that you want?”

Peter beams, clapping his hands together. “I need your help.” 

“My help.”

“Yes. It’ll be fun - trust me, you’ll love it.”

* * *

“I do _ not _ love it,” Loki seethes, nose scrunching in disgust. “Tell me why we’re doing this again?”

“Because,” Peter says, delicately plucking a piece of lint from his friend's sweater, barely resisting the urge to give in to a full body shudder himself. “I need it. For science.”

“Science,” Loki repeats dubiously as Peter continues to smooth down his teal cashmere sweater, as if trying to soothe a skittish cat.

“Yes,” Peter nods. “I have a hypothesis, but one item of evidence does not a conclusion make. I need variables, see?” 

“Variables.”

Peter frowns, wondering if his friend is having a moment. 

“Yes, variables. Are you just going to repeat everything I say or are you going to help me?”

“You want me to willingly go into a sweaty, alpha locker room for _ variables _. Because you have a ‘hypothesis’ about Tony Stark. The same sweaty alpha who puked tequila from his nostrils last week.” 

“I know he’s a philistine who wouldn’t know a Gucci handbag if it smacked him in the face, but it’s for the greater good,” Peter pleads, eyes widening. It’s not even an exaggeration. He did it once and Tony called it a _ purse _.

“I’d do it myself,” he continues, “but it would dilute the sample. The _ sample _, Loki. You’re my only hope. I mean, do you want me to spend my heat miserable and alone?”

Clasping his hands together Peter allows his eyes to water just a little, bottom lip protruding as his gaze turns beseeching. 

“Oh my god, fine - but you owe me for this,” Loki sniffs, poking Peter in the chest. “I want your aquamarine legacy ring from Tiffany’s and we never speak of this again.”

“It’s yours,” Peter promises, face breaking into a sunny smile. “You’re amazing, a god amongst men.”

“I know,” Loki sighs wearily, squaring his shoulders and flicking his hair back so it falls effortlessly over his shoulders. Turning on his heel the other omega sends a withering glare to Peter, speaking volumes of future retribution. The locker room door swings open and Loki follows it, heels thudding thunderously against the linoleum as if it were his own personal stomping ground. 

A near tangible cloud of alpha pheromones billows out of the room as the door slams behind Loki - Peter has to cover his mouth and breathe into the sleeve of his black Valentino turtleneck as the potent stench of sweat and aggression lingers before it clears. Oh god, it’s so gross. 

Tasting sweat on the back of his tongue Peter has the good sense to feel marginally bad for his friend who must be getting a concentrated dose. 

Aside from his own miffed groans it’s suspiciously quiet, nothing save for the sporadic click of Loki's footsteps and the metal squeak of locker hinges. Peter peers at the closed door as if he could see through, all senses on alert for anyone wandering the halls who might see a lone omega hanging outside of an alpha locker room as strange. Of course, Peter wasn’t a total fool and he had taken meticulous care in timing this excursion whilst the football team was out at practice, but you can never be too careful. He didn’t want to be considered a _ deviant _.

It’s just as worry starts to grow legs does the door swing back open, Loki stumbling back out with three plastic bags clutched tightly in his fist. There’s an unmistakable green tinge to his friends skin, sweat dotting his forehead and upper lip as it wobbles.

“_You _ ,” Loki points at Peter, “are the worst. There were jockstraps all over the floor and socks that were brown, Peter, _ brown _. I can’t even talk about it, I’m going to --”

Peter smiles as his friend cuts himself off with a dry heave.

“But you got the stuff, right?”

Loki nods, holding out the bags to Peter, seemingly happy to be rid of them. Peter goes to pat his friend in consolation, suspending his hand mid-air at the last moment as the near miasma of pheromones makes him cringe.

“Let’s go outside for a palette cleanser, shall we?”

* * *

Sitting amongst the freshly cut grass is as good a place as any to conduct his experiment. 

The short, green shavings cling to the cotton of his sleeves as they brush against the ground, depositing the three bags in front of him. Loki stand over him, arms folded as the colour returns to his complexion.

Peter calls it an experiment - but really, if anyone had done any sort of reading on ancient omegan history, it’s just an incredibly condensed version of an archaic babylonian tradition; alphas would come far and wide to present scent-soaked items to the then rare, coveted omegas who, blindfolded, would sniff out their heatmate by scent alone. 

Peter is a man of science, first and foremost, but there’s nothing wrong with the romantic and the empirical meeting, was there?

Under his friend's encouraging gaze Peter lifts the first bag to his lap, reaching inside to grip at the dewy fabric of what must be - _ oh _. He looks up at Loki, betrayed.

Nonetheless, he shuts his eyes to the sound of Loki’s snickering. Peter raises the damp sock out of the bag, lifting the item no further than the crinkling plastic bag straps before he shoves it back in, nose crinkling in distaste, his appetite quickly receding. 

So, he goes with similar results with the next bag, an item so offensive to Peter’s olfactory sensibilities he throws it clean away from him, landing some feet away with a disgruntled rustle.

The third item carries the same scent as back in his bedroom, all spice and musk and it makes his stomach go hot. When he opens his eyes, a little dazed, Loki looks like the cat who ate the canary.

* * *

“I hate everything,” Peter grumbles later, morosely sipping his latte as they stare out onto the football field.

“C’mon,” Loki prods, lowering his sunglasses to stare out at the practising players. “It’s not all that bad. I mean, if you tilt your head to the side and squint...really hard, he’s really not that bad.”

Peter scoffs. “I could be a blind _ and _ deaf and know that Tony Stark has never touched anything that isn’t a blended fabric.”

“I doubt that’s true. He’s old money, isn’t he?”

“I guess,” Peter mumbles, taking another gulp of his mocha, nutmeg goodness.

“He clearly wants you - and he’s the only alpha who could possibly match your level of intellect.”

“I think ‘match’ is a bit too generous a term,” he mutters petulantly, “but I suppose you’re right.”

“Then you know what you have to do if you - what was it, dear - if you don’t want to spend your heat 'miserable and alone'?”

Tilting his head to the side and squinting (really hard), black kitti sunglasses sliding down his nose, Peter assesses the alpha. He’s handsome sure, noticeably built under the swathe of Sears-inspired attire and it’s true that Tony isn’t _ totally _tragic. With a firm hand and his artistic flair, Peter could make it work. He's fixed up worse before for friends and classmates. He's too kind.

Accepting it doesn’t stop him from sullenly stomping his foot on the ground and whining, though. The guy wears Reeboks for goodness sake, it’s going to take so much _ work_.

If he’s going to do this then he’s going to do it properly, Peter decides, resolve solidifying by the second. Inside his mind reels a compilation of items required to extend Tony a ceremonious invitation for open discussions to be his heatmate. No matter how good his scent is to Peter’s increasingly sensitive nose, he’s not going to just ask him outright. He's not a _fiend. _

Back in his bedroom, it takes him no longer than a couple of hours to write the letter he’s going to send to Tony. In impeccable cursive he formally nominates Anthony Edward Stark as a compatible heatmate and requests they promptly meet to complete the agreement. 

The lingering scent in his bedroom emboldens him to sign off with a kiss, the imprint of his rose-pink lipstick bearing as his signature.

Outside the sorority he only needs to flutter his eyelashes to convince some awestruck beta to deliver the letter to Anthony. 

Now all he has to do is wait.

* * *

**** Tony’s elbow deep in wiring when he hears the gentle _ thump thump thump. _He pauses, wrench in one hand and wires in the other, and turns down the Zeppelin blasting from his phone to listen again. 

Still as gentle, the thumps sound, but insistent too- _ knocking. _

He groans, turning the music back on as he calls over it: “Come in! But you’re fuckin’ mad if you think I’m turning the music down, there’s only one acceptable volume for LZ and you’ll be damn sure it’s _ max!” _

“T-T-Tony? I was a-asked to give you this?”

There’s a quivering beta in the doorway, holding a thick envelope in his hand. Tony sighs, turning back to DUM-E who’s beeping sadly at not being serviced anymore. Needy little thing, Tony makes an annoyed little huff, but he likes it really. “Leave it on the desk and scram, kid,” he calls, turning back to more important things. 

He gets lost in the rhythm of the music, then. He thinks the beta tries to tell him something, but he’s not really listening. DUM-E’s happy by the end of the night, and Tony’s wrists ache. He’s about to collapse into bed and sleep for a year when the envelope snags at the edges of his peripheral. 

Now that he thinks about it, who the hell sends a _ letter _ in this day and age? Why not just send a text?

Mildly intrigued, Tony reaches for it, chuckling to himself. Probably from an admirer. He has lots of them. 

_ Anthony Edward Stark _is drawn in elegant cursive on the envelope. It’s heavier than he expects as he falls into bed. And then he sees it.

There’s a wax lavender stamp sealing it shut, and embossed into the perfect circle are the letters in fancy scrawl: _ PBP. _

It takes him a second. 

And then he sits bolt upright. Peter Benjamin Parker? _ No. _Surely not. He carefully rips around the wax, shaking his head in amazement at the utterly ludicrous and completely pretentious way of shutting a fucking envelope, and pulls out the stack of papers inside. 

Of course, as soon as he opens it, a cascade of rose petals trickle onto his bed. 

_ Little shit. _

The next thing that gets his attention is the smell. _ Omega _ and _ dior _ waft up to him, and he traces his fingers across the hand-written writing. It’s beautiful, dated, and of course, in pink ink. Jesus, what the hell _ is _this?

As he skims over it, a few words jump out. _ Proposition, heat partner, availability- _

No. No _ way. _

“Holy shit!” He cries, and he hears Steve call through the walls:

“What?”

“Uh- nothing!” He yells back, flipping through the pages. Is this actually what he thinks it is, _ holy shit. _But yes, sure enough, as he races through the first couple of pages he can confirm that it is. It’s a fucking heat agreement. He hasn’t seen one of these since English in 12th grade when they studied Victorian mating customs.

A heat with Peter Parker, he collapses back into his pillow; mind racing. Obviously, his gut instinct is to say yes. He loves sex, he’s all about sex, in heat, out of heat, with omegas or betas, and once or twice the occasional alpha. Sex is pretty much what he’s known for. He likes it, he’s good at it, why the fuck not make the most of his bachelor lifestyle? 

And the thrill that shoots through him at the thought of doing it with _ Peter _is almost obscene. Prissy princess Peter Parker, the haughty little slip of a thing. The thought of him coming undone, of being soft and needy, of letting Tony run his hands all across that cream skin-

Yeah, okay, that’s doing it for him.

Why now, he wonders musingly, flipping breezily through the other pages. Someone else must have been helping him before now (he’s not jealous. He’s _ not.) _He puffs out his chest a little. He’s the next best thing. 

Well, he’s the _ best _but Peter had once hit him with a Saint Laurent handbag for wearing two-day old sweats to class, so the omega is clearly a little unhinged.

On the last page there’s a pressed kiss where the signature should be.

Tony brings it to his nose and sniffs, and groans. 

Fuck. Peter’s _ kissed _ the paper. If he said yes, he could be kissing _ Peter, _ they could be _ kissing. _

Yeah, he thinks, hand snaking into his pants. It’ll do. 

* * *

It’s pretty easy to find Peter the next day.

After all, he’s goddamn _ trending _on twitter, and all the photos that had spammed Tony’s screen had shown a very familiar strip of green in the background.

Hayes Gardens is nestled in a secluded section of the campus, and when Tony jumps over the fence, it’s pretty easy to spot the two lone figures who have claimed it as their own for the day.

A curly haired beta with a huge camera is one figure, crouched on the ground and wearing a _ save the ocean _t-shirt, but Tony really only has eyes for the second.

“_Jesus.” _ He whispers to himself, feeling struck at the sight of Peter lounging in the high blades and late fall flowers. Just like in the photos, he’s _ radiant. _ There’s a diamond choker around his neck, and something crystal and glittery in his hair like a fucking _ tiara _ (it suits him ridiculously well. Tony wouldn’t be surprised if he was some late descendant of a royal family) _ . _He’s posing, and the puffy sleeves of his white silk shirt flutter in the breeze like angel wings.

Of course the omega is having a photoshoot in the middle of the goddamn day. Tony wonders if the omega ever actually does any work.

He wades through sea of emerald and the beta turns to him with a frown on her face. She shoos him irritatedly, turning back to her lens and capturing shots of Peter with his head tilted back, eyes closed in the sun, long shadows of his lashes against his cheek. 

“Don’t come any closer, you’re blocking my _ light.” _The girl snaps.

Peter looks over in surprise, and Tony meets his curious gaze and waves in greeting. “Petey,” he calls merrily, “I got your fanmail.”

The pretty omega scowls, but sits up, cheeks pink in the sun. “MJ, can we take five? Please?”

MJ grunts, but collapses into the grass and starts going through the photos she’s taken. “Fine, but I want another fifty good frames, Peter. I’m _ going _ to win that art contest, rub it in Liz’s face if it kills me.” She looks over to glare at Tony. “ _ Five minutes. _Then I want my subject back.”

“Really, MJ,” Peter sighs, now on his feet and brushing stray grass from his outfit as he comes over, “I promise I’ll do everything you say.” 

“That’s a first,” Tony snorts, and lifts his hands in innocence to their twin death-glares.

It’s a struggle, but he manages to keep his eyes in all the appropriate places as he and Peter head a little way off, the afternoon sun hot on their backs.

Peter isn’t speaking, which is...another first. Maybe he really hates being interrupted during modelling time. “So,” he breaks the silence himself, unable to keep the smile out of his voice, “you want me, huh? Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Still, nothing.

What the fuck? “Hey, princess,” Toy prods his shoulder, “cat got your tongue or something?” Where’s all the snark?

“What do you want, Anthony?” Peter huffs, not quite meeting his eye. “You’ve come all the way out here to gloat?”

“Well, yeah,” Tony shoots him a lazy grin, before reaching for his satchel and lifting out the hefty agreement and a pen. “And for us to sign, that’s the protocol, right? I mean, I don’t actually know considering this custom is like a decade old.”

“You-, I- _ yes.” _Peter clears his throat, adjusting his perfect curls and taking a seat at the small picnic table they’ve approached. He nods. “That’s the protocol.”

It occurs to Tony then, very slowly, that Peter could have thought he might be here to say _ no. _

But that’s- absurd. Impossible. Prissy Princess Parker _ knows _how gorgeous he is. He knows Tony would never pass up the offer. It’s probably why he asked.

Well, also, Tony’s incredibly handsome and a _ dream _ in the bedroom. He scribbles down his name on the line with a flourish and shoots Peter a wink, trying to draw out some of that infuriating, quintessentially _ Peter _attitude.

It works like a charm. The omega bats his pen away with disgust. “What the hell is _ that? _Do you maul all your stationary?”

He has the manners to feel slightly chastised. “I’ve got an oral fixation. Some people call that a good thing.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but there’s a tiny little smile on his lips. “_ Meathead. _I have my own pen.”

From his skin tight outfit, Peter produces a heavy, deep blue fountain pen. Tony doesn’t even know how. He pushes the contract towards Peter, excitement in his chest. “Go on,” he teases, “sign away your _ soouulll.” _

Peter does laugh then, a tiny, surprised thing, that he quickly schools as a cough. His signature is a glorified swirling of his initials, and he caps his pen with a sweet smile. “I’ll DM you my number. I knew you’d say yes, of course. You’ve been drooling over me for the better part of two years.” 

_ There’s the Peter he knows. _ “Right, _ I’m _ drooling. I’m the one who sent you a fuckin’ _ thesis _in the mail.”

“Please,” the omega scoffs, lifting his nose snootily, “I only needed someone because my normal heat partner is...otherwise occupied. You were the only Alpha whose background was even remotely compatible. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He shouldn’t ask, but it slips out anyway. “Who’s your normal heatmate?”

“Harry Osbourne,” Peter shrugs, getting up and giving Tony a wink of his own. It’s _ not _arousing. “You could learn a thing or two.”

Tony splutters indignantly. He doesn’t know who Harry is but- “Does _ Harry _have a gold ranking on pornhub? Shortstack, one heat with me and you’ll never go back. I guarantee it.”

Peter doesn’t turn around, only sways his hips, making his flared skirt flutter teasingly around his ass. “I’ll believe it when I see it!” He calls over his shoulder, waving his hand like Tony’s dismissed.

Tony grins; victorious. 

* * *

It’s an old tradition: to wine and dine the Omega you’re helping through heat.

Normally Tony doesn’t give any heed to old traditions, he shows up and does the job (a mighty fine and _ enjoyable _ job) but in typical spoilt brat style, Princess Peter has _ insisted. _

When he gets to KKT, Peter’s already standing under the mossy eaves, framed by starlight in a pink fur jacket and silky dress that moves like liquid as he taps his foot impatiently. Tony stands at the bottom of the stone steps and stares up, a little awed, before getting it together and jogging up to him. 

“Hey,” he greets breathlessly, and Peter looks him over: unimpressed.

“I thought you were taking me to a restaurant.” He says, and Tony frowns.

“Yeah, I am-”

“And you’re wearing _ that?” _

Tony resists the urge to roll his eyes because Peter looks about three seconds away from a hissy fit. “What?” He complains, “I actually tried this time- it’s all designer crap.” He misses his college sweater and old, slightly faded science-pun t-shirt. He doesn’t think it would be much appreciated here, though.

“It’s a 2001 Armani sweater with a _ 2009 _ Versace tie, Anthony,” Peter wails, looking up at the sky like it’ll give him strength. He pinches the bridge of his delicate nose and takes a deep breath. “Why don’t you have any _ taste?” _

“I’m beginning to question my taste, actually,” he mutters under his breath, before tugging off his tie. “C’mon, I’ve booked the restaurant, it’ll be fun.” 

Peter looks at him doubtfully, lips pursed in a way that’s entirely distracting. “Which restaurant?” He asks slowly.

“The Dorsia.” Tony grins, holding out his arm.

Peter humphs a little at that, before sighing and nodding. “Fine.” And then softer: “They make really good desserts.”

Tony manfully resists the urge to fist-bump the air. 

There are a few other students out and about, and they murmur things when they see Tony and Peter together and Tony absolutely refuses to feel good about having such a pretty omega by his side. He opens the door of the cab for Peter, but doesn’t get a thank you for it (stuck up _ brat) _and the two of them sit in pretty much silence on the way.

Peter checks his perfectly manicured nails, and Tony wonders how rude it would be to take his phone out and scroll mindlessly, but then he decides that he’d rather not get his ear bitten off by Peter’s complaints, so he sucks it up and leans back against the seat. “So, what do you study?” 

He’s not sure what it is exactly he’s expecting, but it’s not for Peter to say: “Biochemistry major.”

He blinks in surprise, looking over at the omega with new eyes. “Wait, really?”

Peter shrugs, playing with one of the gems adorning his nails. “I’m taking a few chemical engineering elects, and some mechanics classes. The college won’t let me add any more modules, so I’m unofficially self-studying a few Greek History classes. I’ll just bribe someone into letting me sit the exams.”

Tony’s never been so aroused. He opens and closes his mouth a little dumbly. “I didn’t realise you were…” 

Peter half-hums, gaze drifting to the gold swathe of passing street lights. “It’s not a big deal.” He shrugs. “I’ve always had a perfect GPA. You?”

“Obviously.” He smirks, “I just didn’t realise you did.”

“I know,” Peter sighs around a smug smile, “people don’t realise you can be _ this _hot but also have a brain.”

Tony chuckles, shaking his head in amazement. “You’re an enigma, Peter Parker.”

Peter sighs like this is his burden in life. 

He’s a little fascinated. “I thought for sure you were studying fashion or something. I mean- what are you even wearing?”

The pretty omega bristles, his auburn curls streaked with amethysts and glitter. “This is an original Hobeika, Tony. And you can have interests outside of your degree. Just because I know how to synthesise acid doesn’t mean I’m ignorant to the work of Givenchy.”

Tony blinks.

Peter looks pained. “Audrey Hepburn’s iconic black Tiffany’s dress? Her _ classic _ white red-carpet summer dress? Come on, Tony, don’t you know _ anything? _Were you raised in a cave?”

“What does your closet look like?” He wonders.

Peter beams, and it’s heart-wrenchingly beautiful. “Heaven.” He answers with a glittery wink. 

* * *

The restaurant is just as pretentious as Tony remembers. Now, don’t get him wrong, he’s accustomed to the finer things in life. He grew up with money and privilege, but it was all under the watchful eye of his father’s stern stare. The right way to act and dress and speak had been drilled into him relentlessly. College has offered the freedom to break away from that. To rebel in all the ways he had to do in secret during high school. Now he can eat MacDonald’s for breakfast, lunch and dinner, order take out at midnight and smear the grease all down his chin without fear of reprimand, put his elbows on the table and finally _ breathe _.

Peter clearly flourishes under the watchful eye of gold. He relishes in the attention. The attendants take Peter’s coat and his leather purse as he wordlessly hands it over, strutting through the doors and Tony can only stare as people part for him. 

“Mr Parker,” the maitre de smiles, a beta with kind eyes. “Your usual table?”

“Stark booked the reservations.” Peter says, gesturing to Tony without looking at him. “I’ll have my usual drink. And a fresh bouquet brought to the table. And a separate dessert menu.”

“Roses?”

“Always.” Peter winks, and then turns to give Tony an impatient look. Tony hurries forward, and the waiter gives him an amused glance, before showing them to their table. Tony wonders if the waiter is used to seeing _ Harry. _The thought makes him angry. 

They sit down, and a vase spilling with peach roses is set between them along with two candles, and that’s when Tony gets to see Peter properly without his fur jacket.

He’s a _ vision. _ Tony doesn’t know a lot about fashion, but _ Jesus. _The neckline of the satin dress is teasingly low-cut, and a set of fat, gleaming pearls sit along Peter’s collar. His ears are sparkling with diamonds, and his hair looks deep rosewood- Tony can smell sea-salt, can see the way the curls crimp and bounce. An artificial rouge stains his cheeks like a perpetual blush and his lips are painted the colour of strawberry taffy. He’s spectacular. 

And the _ smell. _It’s getting stronger with Peter’s heat approaching, but even now it’s intoxicating. Subtle lavender and honeysuckle, sugar and sweetness- it’s almost overwhelming.

He wants to bask in it. He wishes Peter wasn’t wearing perfume. 

“Why don’t you take a picture?” Peter asks, resting his chin on his hand and looking exactly like the cover of a fashion magazine. Tony wants to. He wishes he had a camera. Peter blinks innocently when Tony doesn’t speak, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow and Tony rapidly reaches for his water as distraction. 

“I was just wondering if you could get any more pretentious.” He snaps, gulping it down. His throat’s dry for some reason.

“Sure,” Peter hums, like he can see right through him, one hand coming to toy with the pearls hanging at his neck. He’s so fucking _ small. _Tony can just picture how they’ll fit together. His body will completely cover him- “I’m ready to order. Call over the waiter?”

Tony snorts, amused despite himself. “Of course, your majesty,” 

Peter gives him a shrewd look. “I’m not sure what your intentions are, but I actually rather like that nickname.”

“Of course you do,” Tony mutters, beckoning the waiter with a wave of his fingers. An idea occurs, suddenly. He looks up with a sharp smile. “Do you have any burgers?” He asks.

Peter’s face is comical. “Don’t you _ dare-” _he hisses.

“But of course, sir,” the waiter answers, “we have a range of gourmet burgers. May I recommend the _ serendipity? _Made from white truffle butter-infused Japense Wagyu beef, the chef tops the burger with James Montgomery cheese, black truffles and a fried quail egg with a side of red lobster sauce.”

Tony meets Peter’s eye with a sly smile. “What about any bacon burgers? Got any of those?”

The waiter looks baffled. “A _ bacon _burger, Sir?”

“Sure. Fry that up for me on a plate- extra cheese, a few curly fries on the side.” He snaps the menu shut and looks up with a charming smile. “You can handle that, can’t you?”

The waiter nods, taking the menu. “O-of course, sir, one..._ bacon _burger, coming right up.” He turns to Peter trepidatiously, “and for you, sir?”

If looks could kill, Tony would be dead. Peter’s gaze is vicious. For a second, the alpha thinks he might get up and walk out, but instead, Peter turns to the waiter with a carefree smile and an apologetic glance. “You’ll have to excuse my friend, he’s writing a novel.”

Tony stifles his laugh into his glass.

“I’ll have a small serving of fresh linguine with Maine lobster in white truffle sauce- and a side serving of salad and a glass of Dom Perignon Rosé.” he finishes softly, and the waiter looks relieved.

“Of course, sir.”

“Oh that reminds me,” Tony chimes, “I’ll have your thickest chocolate milkshake.”

The waiter side-eyes him, his distaste obvious, before nodding and disappearing. 

Immediately, Peter hisses: “You are unbelievable!” And his eyes are shiny with indignation and it’s a very good look on him.

Tony winks. “Thanks, babe. Wait till you see me in bed.”

Peter looks exasperated, and instead leans forward to inhale the scent of peach roses. 

Immediately, Tony feels stupid. It’s almost Peter’s heat, all his senses must be dialled up to eleven. The smell of the roses looks like it calms him, and Tony worries suddenly if the smell of the grease will make him feel sick. Guilt bubbles up and he swallows it back down. It tastes acidic. “Is that all you’re gonna order?” He asks gently, watching as Peter’s nose tickles the soft petals. There’s a smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose and spraying onto his cheeks like dandelion seeds.

The blush on the omega’s face looks a little more genuine. “I want dessert.” He points out, like it’s obvious.

Tony rolls his eyes. “You can have dessert _ and _ a big main.”

He gets a scowl in response. “Not if I want to fit into Christian Siriano’s Sprin Cape Dress at Winter Formal.” 

“You already know what you’re wearing to Winter Formal.” Tony deadpans, before sighing. “Of course you do. But one meal isn’t gonna ruin your…” he lets his eyes roam across Peter’s figure, and a familiar burst of _ want _courses through him. 

“My body is a temple, Anthony,” Peter sing-songs, but his lips are curved up a little, like he’s only teasing.

It’s immensely endearing.

Much to his surprise, when the food comes Peter doesn’t recoil from the strong smell of grease-soaked meat. Regardless, Tony warily tugs the plate towards him, apologetic and regretful, but Peter hardly seems to notice the smell, reaching for the long, curving fork and elegantly twisting the linguine onto it. His fingers are nimble and Tony watches with a slack jaw as the linguine disappears between glossy pink lips. 

He busies himself with his own burger, which is fantastic. Not as good as McDonalds, but a close second. “So,” he begins, half-muffled through food, “did you ever-” he pauses as he catches Peter’s face- horrified at the sight of him. Tony snorts and nearly chokes. 

“Please, _ please _eat like a human!” Peter insists worriedly, and Tony wipes the back of his hand across his mouth as Peter winces. 

“Sorry, princess. I was just asking- did you ever read Tesla’s autobiography?”

Warm honey eyes look at him with mild surprise. “Are you referencing the day we met?”

Tony wiggles his eyebrows, “the day you crowned me a world class asshole.”

Peter laughs. “That’s not what I thought.”

“No? What did you think?” Tony presses.

He gets a long, considering look, and he wishes he could read minds. “I did read it,” Peter hums, smiling like he knows Tony’s in agony. He spears a piece of lobster with some salad and chews delicately. Once he’s finished, he speaks again- a paragon of good manners- “It was good. Not as good as Chesterton’s.”

_ Goddamn. _“You’ve read Chesterton’s?” Tony croaks, voice thick with arousal. 

Peter nods- and conversation quickly descends into a chaotic debate over various books. Fiction and nonfiction, Peter is voraciously well-read, and every time Tony names an impressive title, Peter knows an obscurer one and it’s brilliant and ferociously and intellectually stimulating. 

Tony feels breathless, caught up in it all, his thoughts whirring the way they always are when he’s inspired. When he has an idea for an experiment or when a classmate says something that actually prompts him to push through the barrier of brilliant straight into _ genius. _ Everything Peter says is thoughtful and provoking, and expressed so concisely, so _ elegantly. _Tony offers a counterpoint, and Peter swiftly rebukes it with a perfect quip that makes Tony come up short or bark out a laugh of disbelief.

It occurs to him, as he finishes his milkshake, that Peter Parker could give him a run for his money.

The thought is exhilarating.

Peter’s cheeks are flushed rouge from the wine now, and his eyes twinkle and his pupils are blown wide- only a slim rim of honey iris left. When the waiter comes with the dessert menu, Peter licks wine from his lips and looks shy.

Tony gives him a stern look, and Peter seems to come back to himself, flicking his curls and looking up at the waiter expectantly. 

“One Golden Opulence Sundae.” He decides, and the waiter looks enamoured.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Let’s make that two.” He doesn’t know what the fuck it is, but _ Sundae _should be pretty safe. If it’s covered in caviar he might die.

“Very good,” the waiter beams.

As soon as he’s gone, Tony looks to Peter expectantly. “What is it we’ve ordered?”

“Heathen,” Peter mutters, but it’s fond. Tony’s never heard that tone before- he thinks he could become addicted to it. “It’s delicious.” Peter all but exclaims, voice rising with enthusiasm, “I first had it when my Aunt took me to Paris for my sixteenth birthday. It’s my favourite dessert ever, but not everywhere can afford to serve it. That’s why I love the Dorsia so much. It’s three scoops of Tahitian vanilla bean ice cream infused with Madagascar vanilla and absolutely _ covered _ in chocolate syrup made with Amedei Porcelena, chunks of this rare Venezuelan Chuao chocolate, candied fruits from Paris; gold-covered almonds; marzipan cherries infused with passion fruit, orange, and Armagnac, and a whole edible gold leaf.” His eyes are sparkling. “Doesn’t that sound _ divine?” _

His enthusiasm is intoxicating. Tony laughs. “It sounds expensive.”

“It is,” Peter agrees easily, “but did you hear me say _ Venezeualan Chuao? _Heaven in your mouth.” Peter does a little chef’s kiss, and Tony is struck with the sudden, inexplicable urge to kiss him. “Sometimes,” Peter continues in a whisper, “if I really want to treat myself, I ask them to sprinkle 23-karat gold leaf and blue m&ms over the top…” he looks guilty, “don’t tell anyone.” 

Tony would buy him a plane full of blue m&ms.

_ Shit. _He thinks, oh god, he isn’t is he? He’s not falling for-

Peter makes a sound of pure sex when the dessert comes, and Tony can only stare helplessly.

And Peter makes the cutest little sound of reluctance when Tony pushes the rest of his icecream towards him. “I insist.” He murmurs, and Peter goes limp and takes it with not a small amount of glee. It’s for the best anyway, Tony thinks, because even though the dessert was in fact _ divine, _ Peter’s heat is coming up, and he’ll need all the energy he can get. Besides, for some reason, it’s more satisfying watching _ Peter _eat it.

When they’re back to the sorority, and the stars reign in the sky, high on sugar and delight, Peter looks at Tony and nibbles on his bottom lip. “Thank you,” he whispers sweetly, and he kisses Tony neatly on the cheek, leaving a smear of lipgloss and arousal, before disappearing behind the huge, oak doors. 

Tony stands on the steps outside the sorority for a while, feeling unsteady on his feet even though he didn’t have any wine at all. 

* * *

Leaning back against the oak doors Peter lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in, head tilted back to cast his gaze upon the glistening chandelier. 

It must be the wine, he thinks, that makes the lights seem more soft and radiant, luminescent orbs like glittering stars against the ceiling. One glass too many that makes the original Monet on the far wall seem more vibrant and alive then all the times he’s passed it before.

He’s sure to grab the railing tight as he ascends the stairs, footsteps flighty, smiling courteously as he passes a couple of other omegas in the hall - maybe too courteously if the surprised looks he receives in return are any indication. 

In his bedroom, Loki and Betty are already waiting for him. Spread out like models upon his satin sheets they look like two devious twins, grins getting progressively dark upon his approach. 

“How was it?” Betty asks eagerly as Peter toes off his shoes, her chin propped up on her hands. He allows the suspension to build, withholding his response and sliding off his pink fur jacket, petting the soft faux mink as he folds it upon his dresser to send to the dry cleaners tomorrow. 

“I know that look,” Loki comments as Peter slithers up the bed between them, still in his dress. “Well, darling?”

“We went to the Dorsia," he reveals, setting his head comfortably upon Loki’s stomach, his feet in Betty’s lap. Fingers rake against his scalp comfortingly as his friends prompt him to continue.

“We talked about school and books, you know, typical get-to-know your heatmate things. It was all very civil on my behalf, of course. Everything going well if you discount his inability to dress himself properly.”

“And then?” Betty asks, looking at him dreamily. 

“And then,” Peter begins, shutting his eyes at the memory. She’s unbonded, like him, however has never had a heatmate to compare the experience with. He hates to tarnish her glossy dreams about the process but he must be honest.

“Then he looked our waiter in the eye and - wait for it - ordered _ a bacon burger and curly fries. _”

The fingers in his hair halt abruptly, snagging on a curl.

“A...bacon burger and curly fries.” Loki repeats dubiously, shakily resuming his combing of Peter’s hair. 

“And a milkshake,” Peter finishes, throwing a hand against his forehead. 

“A milkshake,” Betty says slowly, as if waiting for the punchline. “At the _ Dorsia _.”

“At the Dorsia,” Peter confirms. “You don’t even know, Betty. It was like he was raised in a barn.”

He doesn’t mention how the grease made the alphas lips glisten or the unashamed way he would lick it from him thumb, drawing the digit into his mouth. He doesn’t tell them about the hopeful expression on Tony’s face as he offered the last of his dessert to Peter in not only a gesture of deference, but nurturing. 

He politely doesn’t talk about the pleased pheromones when Peter accepted, or how he’d never been so sure of their compatibility until that moment - and he absolutely deigns not to detail how he kissed the alpha's cheek or how good he smelt up close, all heat and woodfire and musk. 

All of that is good, but what use is just _ ‘good’ _ in the moments he will need to rely upon Tony the most. Peter needs someone he can trust. What good is all of that if Tony can’t take their arrangement seriously and meet Peter eye-to-eye. A whole week spent with one person is a long time, after all. 

Sometimes presumptive heatmates require a rigorous, pre-emptive stress test. Peter claps his hands, calling his friends to action.

“We have work to do,” he declares solemnly. “And I am going to need your help.”

* * *

It is way too early on a Saturday morning for any sane human being to be awake, so the incessant ringing of the doorbell tells Tony that there are maniacs outside.

“God, who the hell is it?” Clint groans, sprawled face down in a cold puddle of his own vomit, his face creased with the floor and reeking of a hangover. Sunlight streams into his eyes and Tony winces on his behalf.

“I don’t know,” he grumbles, shoving through debris and rubbing the sleep from his eyes to pull open the door. He has to blink harshly against the obnoxious rays of bright light, before he can see who’s there. When he does, he groans. “What the _ hell, _Peter?”

But it’s not just Peter. There are two other omegas flanking him, Loki on one side and a girl Tony doesn’t recognise on the other. They’re all in matching Gucci belts and varying shades of pink. Tony hasn’t seen the omega since their dinner the other night, and Peter is just as beautiful now as he was then. Gold adorns his wrists and neck, and he’s almost Tony’s height in the obscenely tall heels he’s got on. “Didn’t you even read the agreement you signed, plebe?” Peter sighs, pushing past Tony easily, the other two omegas following suite. He struts like the heels aren't the thinnest things Tony's ever seen. It's hypnotising. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m examining your gross fraternity where you’ll be treating us to brunch.”

Tony stands in the doorway, trying to get his head together.

“Wow,” Loki murmurs, looking around. “This place is gross.”

“Super tacky.” The female omega agrees, examining her nails.

“I’ve never seen a place so disgusting.” Peter chirps, stepping over Clint with a look of disgust. “It’s tacky _ and _ gross.” He holds out his palm expectantly and Loki hands him a wad of bills held together with a silver money clip. Peter tucks it seamlessly into his purse and then squirts some hand sanitiser onto his fingers. 

“Yeah, I did not wake up this early to get insulted.” Tony drawls, finally closing the door in acceptance, “and did you three fucking _ match _your outfits? Doesn’t that- clash?”

“Oh my god,” Loki stage-whispers, “you’re really going to have your heat with him?”

Tony really is up too early.

“He’s an idiot.” Peter agrees, before turning to Tony with a sigh. “_Matching _ is the complete opposite of _ clashing_, Anthony. Read a book.” He says loudly, like he’s talking to a child. Tony barely resists the urge to stick his tongue out. Peter then turns back to Loki and shrugs, “he was nice at the restaurant.”

Tony follows as the three of them walk into the kitchen, critiquing everything as they go. He thinks he very vaguely remembers something about this in the agreement. But it’s all steeped in such old tradition. Hosting a meal at their respective homes before a heat is something Tony thought died out back in the 1950s. Evidently for the Parkers, it has not. Peter glances at the dirty kitchen stools and pouts. Tony swipes his hands through his hair in exasperation. “What now, princess?” He asks, tugging open the door of the fridge and glugging some milk straight from the carton. It’s refreshingly cool.

Loki and the girl make retching sounds. 

“Where am I supposed to _ sit?” _Peter demands.

He gestures to the stools.

Peter’s bottom lip wobbles dangerously-

“_Wait.” _Loki beams, pointing at Tony’s pyjama pants. “Those are Louis Vitton.”

Tony shifts self-consciously as Peter peers harder at his nightclothes, before beaming. “Yay!” He claps.

And then he’s staring at Tony expectantly.

It takes him a few moments to catch on, he blames the fact that not five minutes ago- he was asleep. 

That’s how the rest of the frat find him later, sitting on the over-used couch with a prissy omega on his lap, and two other omegas lounging on the couch that has been covered in all of his most expensive clothes. Tony doesn’t really care, it’s not like he ever wears them, but still-

Steve and Stephen pause in the doorway, mouths agape, before Steve bursts out laughing. “You’re a glorified seat cushion, Stark!”

Tony bristles offendedly, but Peter just tucks neater into his side. “It’s not my fault I’m allergic to low thread counts.” He points out and Tony can’t help but laugh. Besides, Peter doesn’t mind when Tony lays a large, warm hand on his knee to keep him steady. Tony’s never been able to _ touch _ the omega so much, it’s intoxicating. His skin buzzes in response to the softness of Peter’s body, how light he is, how _ small, _Tony can hardly imagine what a heat spent with him will be like. Their scents are merging together and he wants to roll around in it in a way that’s base and primal. 

Peter looks up at him, completely dignified, like he’s sitting on a _ throne _and not a person. “Are you ever going to get us brunch, Tony? Or are we supposed to sit around this hobo residence for hours?” 

“I’m supposed to get you brunch?” He asks, just because he likes riling the omega up.

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Alright, alright,” he lifts his hand up in surrender, “want me to order a cheese burger?”

The two omegas on the couch look up from their phones to shoot him withering glares. Peter looks unamused. “A cheeseburger? What am I, yesterday’s trash?”

“Gonna go with no?” Tony guesses.

“Jesus,” Clint laughs, stumbling into the kitchen, looking more alive now. He tugs open the fridge and pulls out some ham. “You’ve got one high maintenance omega on your hands, T.”

“I’m not high maintenance.” Peter corrects, lifting his nose snootily. He doesn’t like it when he’s talked over, Tony can see that. “It’s called having standards. You should get some.”

Clint laughs through his mouthful of ham. “Oh, I have standards, gorgeous-”

“No, what you _ have _is cold vomit on your cheek and a mouthful of processed meat three months past its expiration date.”

Tony tries to muffle his snort into Peter’s shoulder, and to his surprise, the omega half-smiles too, like the fact he’s made Tony laugh is something to be happy about.

Tony feels all warm. 

“Alright, alright, little minx,” he chides fondly, as Clint blanches at the expiration date on the packaging, Tony gets his phone out as easily as he can without jostling Peter. “I’ll order in. Any requests?”

That’s how he ends up watching Peter delicately dip the corners of his sandwich into luxe tomato and lobster bisque for brunch. What the hell even is _ brunch? _ The sandwich smells irritatingly good for something so pretentious- duck and asparagus tucked neatly into freshly baked sourdough bread. Loki and _ Betty _as it turns out her name is, have similar levels of luxury in their hands. 

“It smells good, doesn’t it?” Peter smirks triumphantly, twisting a little to show off his sandwich. 

His ass is pressed right onto Tony’s crotch, and really, Tony is just trying not to get hard. “Yeah, yeah, it smells nice.” _ Peter _smells nice too. Floral and expensive and-

All too soon lunch is over, and the three omegas rise in unison, heels clicking as they walk to the door. “I’ll see you at the sorority tomorrow, Tony!” Peter calls over his shoulder.

Tony feels winded. “Wait- what? I’m coming over?”

“Read the agreement!” Is all he gets, before the front door is slammed shut.

He stares at the mess of his clothes all over the couch and decides he’ll go back to bed.

Behind him, Clint throws up into the sink.

* * *

Brunch had been ready upon Tony’s arrival. In fact, despite turning up exactly when Peter had specified, he’d still felt the very real sense that he was late, especially considering the glare Loki kept sending his way. 

After cream cheese bagels topped with balik salmon and parsley drizzled with white truffle sauce (oh sure it was _ nice, _but it was no egg mcmuffin) Tony had been given the tour of the sorority.

It looks so different during the day. Tony’s only ever seen it dressed up for parties, filed with intoxicated students and streamers and balloons. In the day time, filled with sunlight, it’s much more elegant. All the furniture is pink or dusty white, with burnished gold trimmings- _ ”It’s called ‘Copper and Blush’, Anthony. I had a hand designing it, of course.”- _there’s not a speck of dirt anywhere, and he can see his reflection in the marble countertops. 

There’s a huge pool in the immense grounds out back, and the whole place smells of wild flowers and expensive perfume. He can’t help but yawn a few times though, as Peter gives him a very well-rehearsed tour and history of the sorority, including naming all the notable alumni omegas who attended in previous years. He feels like a pledge and-

His boredom dissipates the second Peter leads him up the grand staircase. 

“Am I gonna get to see your bedroom?” He asks eagerly, admiring the way Peter’s pink shorts hug his ass as they head up the stairs. 

“_Obviously.” _Peter hums, shaking his hips like he knows he’s been stared at, “it’s where we’re spending my heat, I want you to be familiar with where I keep things in case there’s an emergency.”

Immediately, his interest turns to worry. “Emergency, right,” Tony frowns, chewing on his bottom lip. _ Damn. _ What if something does happen? What if Peter’s _ hurt _and he doesn’t know what to do and-

“Better safe than sorry,” Peter assures him, pausing when they get to his door. His smile is smug. “_This _is what a bedroom should look like.”

Holy shit.

The first thing that strikes Tony is the size of it. It’s _ huge. _

He wanders in, feeling a little starstruck. The enormous eastern king barely takes up any room as it sits centered against the far wall, the pink princess headboard pierced with amethysts and covered in an artistically shaped tangle of fairy lights and lush green ivy. A canopy of thin white sheets studded with crystals frames the bed, tied neatly to the posts with satin ties. The bed is almost bursting with an assortment of cushions of varying sizes and luxurious textures. _ Of course, _Tony thinks. He can picture Peter sinking into all those pillows. 

There’s a framed (and _ signed _ ) Grace Kelly poster on the wall (the pearls around her neck bear a striking [read: suspicious] resemblance to the ones Peter had worn to their dinner), and a huge bookcase teaming with first editions and polished, glossy covers. Titles that range from _ The Writing of Herodotus, _ and _ Yarward on the Heart of the Homosapien _ to _ Dior: Make sense of Fabric, _ and _ The Complete Fashion Collection by Vogue. _

There’s an ivory sheepskin rug slung over the low-seated chair at the marble vanity. A Chanel jewellery box and a make up stand impeccably neat. 

There’s a study corner with a pink desk with thick, leather bound notebooks. Colour coordinated study notes are pinned up to the poster board, and a dark red printer sits on the edge. There’s a hanging swing chair, filled with a huge, silk cushion, and a floor-length mirror framed thick white and the sunlight pours in through the huge windows that have views leading out onto the purposely overgrown grass and lavender-strewn fields outside. 

“Well,” Tony croaks, looking around. “Holy shit.”

He thinks back to his own room. It’s a lot smaller, but that’s because his fraternity isn’t as exclusive as this sorority so there are more members. He thinks of the fact that the double doors Peter has probably leads to an obscene closet, and back in his room, he still has half of his clothes crumpled up in the suitcase under his bed. 

There’s another door to Peter’s room. 

“Do you have an ensuite?” Tony asks, almost hoping it isn’t true. 

Peter beams. “Obviously. Complete with clawfoot bathtub and rain shower. You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

Tony won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, he shrugs and points to the poster. “Do you have that necklace now?”

Peter sees through him. “You _ like _it!”

It is pretty. A little too feminine for Tony’s taste, but it’s absolutely _ soaked _in Peter’s scent and that’s the best part. The temptation to get into that ridiculously soft-looking bed and to roll around in the sweet, floral smell is testing his self-control. 

“Here’s where I keep emergency stuff and supplies,” Peter continues, pulling out a vintage looking chest from under his chaise lounge. He pats it happily. “Everything I could need. Specially made for me protein bars, bed sheets custom designed for my skin, and…” his cheeks go pink, “anything else. Batteries, creams ...If I’m fussing, head to this box as your first port of call. There’s a first aid kit here, and a spare in the bathroom. But don’t worry,” he waves his hand as Tony tries to commit all of this to memory, “this is all in the agreement.”

Crap. Tony should probably read that. 

“Any questions?”

“Uh…”

“Excellent.” Peter smiles, “you can show yourself out.”

Tony lets out a snort of disbelief. “You are such a-”

“Don’t let the door hit you,” Peter sings, blowing a sweet kiss over his shoulder. 

_ This omega. _

* * *

“Tony Stark,” Harry says dubiously, squinting as if it would make him understand better. 

“Mhmm,” Peter confirms, daintily picking up his porcelain cup and sipping his tea. Vivaldi’s_ Four Seasons_ plays in spectacular clarity from the upscale restaurant speakers, staff moving around them in silent harmony as they plate meals and refill drinks. 

“You mean, _ the _ Tony Stark. ”

“That’s what I said,” Peter replies graciously, taking great satisfaction in the way Harry’s face twists in confusion, brow wrinkling as his mind whirs. 

“The same Tony Stark that you said that you would contract chlamydia from if he so breathed in your direction.” 

“Harry, I was exaggerating,” Peter rolls his eyes. “And I believe I said syphilis at the time.” 

“My mistake,” Harry mutters, biting off a large chunk of his bread roll, speaking with his mouth full. “So, you’re spending your heat with someone you thought could transmit an STD from proximity alone.”

“He has a 4.0 average,” Peter sighs dreamily, picking idly at the Beluga caviar. “And he’s kind of handsome in that roguish, unkempt way, don’t you think?”

“Sure, if sweaty neanderthals are your kind of thing.”

Peter smiles sedately, toying with the pendant of his pearl drop necklace. “Speaking of, how’s Jenny?”

“Jessie,” Harry corrects, eyes narrowing as he sips his tea. “She’s great, thank you. She met Norman last week. He _ adores _ her.”

Peter raises his eyebrows, humming low in his throat. Well, that about says it all, he thinks, but politely declines to offer his opinion on the matter. Poor Harry always did move fast - perhaps that was an alpha quality overall, the lower head a beacon for life decision making. At least Harry had enough sense to know the difference between Burberry and Balenciaga.

“Well, seems like we’re both expanding our horizons,” Peter placates, delicately spooning the caviar onto a tiny square of dried bread. “You must give Jessie my best, tell her she is welcome to our lunches at any time.”

“Yes, of course,” Harry nods, a wry smile coming over him. “Likewise to Tony, although I can hardly see him wanting to eat here. Maybe we can go somewhere closer to his tastes - we could all eat a Happy Meal, or a gas station burrito, perhaps. I hear the 7-Eleven parking lot is a great dining experience.”

Peter kicks at him from under the table as he sips his tea, fixing him a warning glare. The alpha doesn’t even wince despite the stiletto making contact with his shin, which only irritates Peter more. 

It’s not that he’s protective of Tony or even that Harry is incorrect, but hot ire prickles in his chest like tiny needles at the implications nonetheless. Only _ Peter _ is allowed to criticize Tony as his chosen heatmate, nobody else. Surely anything but a glowing consensus on his choice is a personal attack on him. It won’t do.

“Harold Osborne,” Peter scolds, setting his tea cup down with a loud clink. “May I remind you that spite is not very becoming of you. It’s utterly unattractive.”

Harry looks unaffected by the reprimand, squaring his shoulders, dark eyes piercing as he cooly observes Peter. 

“I’m just making sure you have someone competent taking care of you.”

“I can take care of myself,” Peter replies curtly. “Besides, it’s just one heat - no double dates are required.” 

“Still,” Harry shrugs. “As the old man says, you’re judged by the company you keep. You know I don’t think anyone is going to be good enough for you.”

“Which is why you’re my best friend,” Peter reminds him. “That and your impeccable wardrobe. You have nothing to worry about - by my next heat there will be some other meathead bozo for you to have a pissing match over.”

An old lady the table over looks at him, scandalised. Peter smiles at her.

“Just please don’t get herpes from Stark before then. I won’t be able to associate with you if you do.”

Peter smiles easily at his friend, finger tracing the curve of his pendant. His stomach feels funny when he thinks about some faceless alpha assisting him next time, but it must be the pre-heat hunger pangs. Maybe he should have ordered more. 

“Don’t lie,” he tuts. “We both know you’ll meet me here every week, regardless. Who else will listen to you complain about Norman?”

“It’s true,” Harry sighs, winking at the old lady who continues to stare. “You’re a persuasive man, Peter Parker.”

He smirks, satisfaction curling up in his gut. 

“I know.”

* * *

It starts with cramps.

Searing, stabbing cramps.

It’s like clockwork every time. The day before Peters heat is due his body reacts the same way, waking him up whilst its still dark, body wracked with pain so intense it leaves him stifling gasps into his pillow, teeth tearing into the satin. The worst of it comes and goes in waves, the peaks bringing tears to his eyes.

In middle-school they teach giggling classrooms of juvenile teens that it’s the omegas body preparing itself for the upcoming heat, the rush of hormones making the pain more intense. It always brings the loudest laughs as teachers detail the body preparing to create a veritable river of slick, readying itself for the week long ordeal.

Romantics long philosophised it as the omegas way of calling out for their alpha, an ache that only a bond could ease. Songs would sermon the pain and compare it to a lonely wolf, howling desperately to hear its mate in return. Destiny's way of bringing two people together or some bullshit.

It’s not funny or romantic, Peter seethes as his body trembles violently under the covers, toes curling as another cramp sharpens. It _ hurts _. Moving hurts. Breathing hurts. It’s all just agony, there aint nothing dreamy and cinematic about sweating into his thousand-count egyptian cotton sheets.

It’s probably stupid alphas that write those stupid songs. What would they know. Trust a knot obsessed asshole to mistake this experience for some kind of poetic delirium. Honestly, and they call omegas daydreamers?

Loki and Betty hover over him throughout the day, muttering sympathetically as they make sure he is fed and watered, gently draping wet towels over his skin and petting his hair. Their scent helps a little, but it’s an overall miserable experience and he just wants it to be over. 

At some point through mid-morning he sends a simple text to Tony that reads: _ you need to be here tonight. _

Then: _ bring me one of those gold flaked truffles from the chocolatier on Second on your way. Actually, make that two. _

As an afterthought:_ please _

What he receives back is a concerned flurry of texts, asking him if he should be there now, bloated paragraphs about what he should bring, as if Peter hadn’t specifically outlined and annotated all of his requirements to minute detail in the agreement. For goodness sake, honestly.

After assuring Tony that he needs to only arrive when requested Peter snuggles back under his covers, hands tightening around the threadbare band tee that he’d ‘borrowed’ from Tony’s collection. It doesn’t ease the cramps but the scent carries enough to lull him into a fitful sleep.

When he wakes it’s late enough that the light from his windows casts his bedroom into a pale orange glow. The pain for the most part has subsided to a dull ache, he’s pleased to note as he rises, arms stretched skywards. 

Sniffing himself with a wince he drags himself to the shower, cleaning himself thoroughly and washing his hair. His skin gets covered in a scentless lotion, going a little overboard maybe - but just because he’s heading into a literal week long sex marathon doesn’t mean his skin can’t be supple.

He considers donning a satin nightdress in a divine pale peach but at the last moment decides against it, nerves winning over. Instead he reaches for well-worn pink sleep shorts and slips Tony’s band tee over his head. 

He strips the bed of the sweat soaked sheets and replaces them, smoothing the corners until they lie creaseless, arranges the pillows and cushions neatly and should he provide complimentary mints or something? That’s ridiculous, he thinks a second later, logic overriding his nesting brain. This is an arrangement, not a bed and breakfast. 

It’s as he’s delivering the finishing touches to the room, well and truly late into the evening, that there’s a knock at his door. It’s followed by the sound of shoes shuffling nervously on the carpet and the quiet murmurings of what sounds like Tony giving himself a pep talk.

The quiet ‘_you got this, Tony_,’ makes his heart soften, a fond smile on his lips as he approaches the door. What an utter dork.

When he swings the door open it seems that Tony is rooted in place, jaw going slack as he stares at Peter. There are endless canvas bags slung over each arm, at least three duffle bags on his shoulders and lastly, a tiny paper bag clutched in his fist.

“Close your mouth or you’ll catch flies,” Peter teases, placing a finger under Tony’s chin to lift it. 

It spurs the alpha into action, following Peter into the heart of the room with an awkward waddle as he balances everything he is carrying. 

“You’re wearing my shirt,” Tony says, dropping the bags by the chaise as he seats himself on it. “Warn a guy there, princess.”

Peter shoots him a look, smiling coyly as he sits beside him. He knows when their combined scent reaches Tony’s nose, brown eyes going dark and distant, the tip of his tongue wetting his bottom lip. In a moment of boldness Peter shuffles closer so their thighs are pressed together.

“You told me to wear it, didn’t you?"

“And when do you ever do what I tell you to, hmm?” 

Tony reaches out to trace at the stretched neckline, inadvertently exposing the dip at the base of his throat. The soft tip of his finger grazes Peters skin. This close he can count Tony’s eyelashes, enviously long and thick. 

Peter swallows. “Only when I want to do it too.”

“Looks good on you.” 

Peter hums in agreement, pulling back from the heady lure of the man's scent, keen on keeping his wits about him. So close to his heat he’s tempted to just put his nose in the juncture between neck and shoulders and sniff. He pokes at the leather jacket adorning Tony’s wide frame instead, surveying the worn and well-loved leather. 

“What’s this about? Did you get this from a thrift store or something equally heinous?”

Tony looks down at himself, inspecting the butter soft material. “It was my grandfathers’, it’s vintage.”

“Vintage,” Peter scoffs. “From which collection?”

Tony shrugs.

“And you bring this into my house,” Peter mutters, standing up and pointing at the various bulging bags. “Here’s the plan: you’re going to put these away, _ neatly _, and then we’re going to go to bed and watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I have a craving for Givenchy.”

Tony’s rush to comply is at least a little satisfying.

By the time Paul and Holly have made a mess of themselves in the rain, Peter is again pleasantly tired. His muscles, taut and sore from the ferocity of his earlier pain, are now wonderfully relaxed, the heat radiating from the alpha under the covers lulling him into a syrupy state. 

Once the movie is finished Peter glances over at Tony cast in the technicolour glow of the laptop screen. He appears similarly affected, his eyelids drooping and mouth slack. 

“Don’t you just _ love _ that movie?” Peter sighs, snuggling into his pillow with a helpless smile.

Tony closes the lid of the laptop, setting it on top of the bedside table closest to him. “It was alright,” he admits, sinking under the covers and turning on his side. ‘_Alright_’, Peter thinks amusedly, filing the information away for later. He’ll come around.

“I always wanted to be kissed in the rain like that,” Peter admits quietly, feeling stupid and bashful all at once for saying it. He buries his nose into the satin casing to soften his sudden candidness. 

Tony doesn’t laugh like he expects, but there’s humour in his tone when he responds, voice rough and rich as he shuffles closer under the covers. 

“Even if you were wearing that cape dress thing you like?”

“Christian Siriano’s Spring Cape Dress,” Peter corrects with a fretful tut, as if he hasn’t brought the dress up on at least four separate occasions. As if it’s that difficult to remember. “And oh my gosh, yes - being swept into your lover's arms, uncaring about the world around you? It’s _ poetry _.”

“Sounds kinda chilly to be honest.”

“That’s because you’re as cultured as a sewer rat,” Peter sighs. ”Think of the romance Tony, the _ esthétique _. Some things are worth getting wet for.”

He regrets it the moment the words leave his mouth. 

Directing a warning finger at Tony’s roguish grin, Peter hisses before Tony can utter a word. “Don’t you dare, Anthony Edward Stark.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, princess,” Tony placates, smile still in place. “I know how delicate your sensibilities are.”

“About as delicate as your ego,” Peter mutters, flipping over onto his other side away from the alpha, more than keen to get to sleep already. He shifts a little, finding the perfect divot in the mattress and pulls generously on the covers. 

Behind him, Tony shifting similarly, turning over so they are now back to back. The covers are abruptly tugged away from Peter, leaving him with tiny corner that barely covers his body. Miffed, Peter pulls them back again, not bothering to silence his annoyed grumble. 

A tug-of-war ensues, accompanied by a series of unimpressed huffs and irritated sighs. In unspoken compromise each shuffle backwards until their bodies nearly touch. It’s infuriating, Peter thinks, he’s the one with a lower basal body temperature here. Where is the chivalry?

Then, it’s just quiet. Awkwardly quiet, save for the soft exhalations and sleepy smack of lips. 

Weary down to his bones, Peter expects sleep to instantly claim him. But if anything, the silence augments the reality of their situation. It hits him then - the heavy realization that in a few short hours he’s going to be at his most vulnerable, his most defenceless. Not even a stitch of Versace could protect him.

Whether by coincidence or sensing his discontent, Tony rolls over and inches forward until his chest meets Peter’s back. Even through their layers of clothing Peter can feel the heat coming off from him, and it inexplicably makes him shiver. 

A heavy arm gets slung over his side, Tony’s big palm sliding up to rest on Peter’s chest, just above his heart. At first, Peter’s instinct is to sharply elbow back, to tell Tony not to coddle him - but it’s… actually really nice, he grudgingly admits, going lax into the comforting cradle of Tony’s body. 

Shifting back slightly, Peter brings a cautious hand up to rest on Tony’s forearm, tracing light circles on his skin which only serves for Tony to pull him closer. It’s something he could get used to, Peter thinks, eyelids getting heavier and heavier. Having someone to come home to like this, always feeling safe and warm, a calming scent permeating his space.

A tender kiss is placed on the back of his neck, lips lingering on his skin for just a moment. The near inaudible whisper of, “_S’okay_, _ I’ll take care of you, baby_,” is the last thing he hears before slipping into the darkness of slumber.

* * *

When Peter wakes his entire body is on _ fire _.

Throwing the covers off himself, the first thing Peter notices aside from the unbearable fever is that it is still dark outside, save for the twinkle of his fairy lights. The second, is the embarrassing awareness of how wet he is, how his sleep shorts are uncomfortably plastered to his skin. Third, is that he’s hard, painfully hard. 

The fourth is that he is alone. His body sings for his alpha, for the scent soaked into his sheets, but a second scan around the room confirms Peter to be the only occupant and the realisation makes something is his chest cave in, a pained whimper escaping his throat as he buries his head in his hands. 

The ache blooms in his chest, shoulders hitching as his mind goes into overdrive. He’s alone, he’s _ alone _ , his alpha took one look at him and ran, doesn’t _ want _ him - 

The heavy thudding of footsteps breaks him from his misery. As he looks up Tony appears as a silhouette in the yellow glow of the bathroom light, his face stricken with concern.

“Shit, fuck - “ Tony curses, brandishing a wet face-towel, “You were boiling up, I was just gonna -”

Peter cuts him off, holding his arms wide open. Tony doesn’t hesitate to rush over, leaping onto the bed and scooping Peter into his arms, clutching him tightly to his chest. Peter has no shame in immediately burying his nose at Tony’s throat and taking great gulps his scent as he perches upon his lap, wrapping his arms around the alpha in a vice grip. The immediate relief is enough to counteract any embarrassment from his earlier reaction, proximity easing the clawing in his chest.

Tony shushes him gently, running a comforting hand down his spine as Peter begins to mouth at the skin of his neck, tasting the salt of his heated skin. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter mumbles, nosing up to taste at the junction under his jaw. “I just -”

“It’s okay, baby - Christ, you’re shivering. C’mere.”

He hates feeling so scattered, so unmoored, as if his whole body was inches out of alignment with his brain. Every cell in his body yearns to bury himself into Tony, to furrow into him until the two are merged together, to be filled in every part that now feels agonizingly hollow. The scent alone is not enough, it’s - 

Tugging at the hem of his shirt he brings it over his head, throwing it to the side. Eager fingers scrabble at Tony’s tee, too hasty to make purchase. “Off now,” he demands, mewling in relief when the alpha complies.

The skin-on-skin contact is divine, as is the rewarding kiss Peter places on Tony’s lips. The alpha doesn’t hesitate to respond, biting at Peters lips, hands snaking down to grab at his ass. Peter spreads his legs to press their groins together, grinding down to the fully hardened bulge, even between their layers of clothing he can feel Tony is packing, girthy - perfect for him.

“You’re so wet, sweetheart,” Tony praises, a hint of wonderment against Peter’s lips, exploratory fingers rubbing at his hole through his soaked shorts. “Smell so good. This all for me?”

“It’s mostly for me,“ Peter retorts, panting against Tony’s mouth, mind going hazy as a wave arousal hits. Brain short-circuiting he can’t remember why the alpha isn’t inside him yet, the gape inside of him growing the longer he is unfilled. 

Curling his arms around Tony's shoulders he uses his body weight to pull the alpha down on top of him, groaning delightedly at the perfect friction on his cock as Tony shifts to settle between his legs, kicking his pants down the rest of the way. 

His hands push at the waistband of Tony’s pyjamas, whining frustratedly when their bodies get between them. Tony leans in to steal a quick kiss before settling back on his knees and running his hands up Peter’s thighs, tugging the damp shorts off.

A fully naked Tony is an image to behold, behind the cheap polycotton hid a body so finely sculpted it could only have been crafted by the ardent ministrations of a deity. There is little time to appreciate it however as Peters eyes fall to Tony’s cock, standing up and a ruddy red where it leaks at the head. 

The smirk on Tony’s face is sin personified as he slithers back down Peters body, pressing their lips together in a hungry kiss. The way that Tony’s tongue slips into his mouth is good, the slick slide of their bodies together is good, he hot brush of their cocks are so good, it’s not enough though, he needs -

“More,” Peter insists, hooking his ankles around Tony’s thighs as flames lick inside his skin. “I - _ fuck _\- I need --”

“Shh,” Tony soothes, kissing his jaw as a hand snakes down to pet at his hole, fingertip easily sliding in. “I got you. Is this what you need?”

“I thought you were supposed to be smart, Stark,” Peter taunts, cutting off on a groan when the finger is completely pushed in to the base. “Do you need directions - _ ohhh god _ \- or are you going to take care of me like you said?”

“Have I ever told you that you’re a bossy little shit?” Tony murmurs, adding a second finger, scissoring them inside over and over to the sounds of their laboured breaths, the squelch of his slick.

“Please, you like it,” Peter breathes, rolling his hips as heat coils in his stomach. “C’mon, I have toys that work harder than you.”

Tony takes that as an invitation to withdraw his fingers his fingers from Peter’s hole, a needy whine escaping his lips. The oppressive emptiness returns and he opens his mouth, ready to release a fretful reprimand, until he notices Tony using the slick-sodden hand to jack himself, covering his length in the sticky substance.

That should be outlawed, Peter thinks, reaching down to palm at his own cock, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple. 

Tony watches Peter watching him and smirks. It’s one of the last things he remembers with perfect clarity before the heat claims all of his higher faculties.

When Tony finally breaches him, entering inch by inch, the relief is palpable. His fingers clutch at whatever skin he can reach as the alpha becomes fully emerged into Peter. Tony lowers himself to cradle Peters head with his forearms, stomach grazing Peter’s cock as he rolls his hips.

It’s quick, both too worked up to make it last, he doesn’t care - he needs the edge taken off too badly for finesse. The hot glide of Tony’s cock in and out of his body fills up everywhere he felt an absence before, his desperation reaching it’s crescendo as the room fills with the sound of skin slapping skin. 

Fingers weaving through the alphas hair, he rolls his hips to meet Tony’s punishing pace, thighs tightening around his waist as pleasure overrides his ability to reason, forgets that it was ever there as that spot inside him is grazed with glorious accuracy.

Tonys’ face is close enough for Peter to lick off the beaded sweat on his upper lip, their eyes locking as Tony’s thrusts drag inside him slower, deeper. Tony coos encouragingly as Peter’s whines of pleasure become more unrestrained, inhibitions fleeing as his insides are stretched, _ filled _. 

“I’m gonna --” 

It’s all the warning Peter gets before he feels his rim widening, catching at the base of the knot rapidly expanding inside of him. The unrestrained groan that escapes Tony’s plush lips is what sets him off, head thrown back as he comes, spilling his release between their bodies. 

Still in the midst of his own prolonged pleasure Tony sets his weight down upon Peter, nuzzling into the omegas neck where it is still elongated, rapture curling his toes under the covers. 

Holy hell. 

* * *

Later, once the knot shrinks enough for them to disentangle, Tony pulls out with an embarrassing squelch, flopping down onto his back next to Peter’s prone form. Their chests heave with laboured breaths, both staring up dazedly at the ceiling as they wrap their heads around what just happened.

Peter valiantly tries to ignore the wetness being wasted down his thighs as his mind begins to clear, the fever finally dissipating. Grace Kelly stares back at him in all her glossy glory as he takes stock of the room, her look knowing. 

Tony rolls onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow, skin florid from exertion. He sends Peter an expectant look, with a quirk of an untamed eyebrow.

“So?” The alpha asks, gesturing to the rumpled sheets between them.

What does he want, a _ review _?

Shifting, Peter pats Tony’s chest in mock consolation. “I’m sure you were trying, Anthony. We can call that a practice round, if you’d like?”

The alpha's expression turns petulant.

* * *

The next round Peter shows him how it’s done, pushing him back and riding him into the mattress, head thrown back as he braces Tony’s broad chest, fingers skimming his stiffened nipples. The moaned curses spilling from the alphas lips as Peter chases his pleasure is almost as satisfying as the release.

Between forcing down foods that taste like sawdust and the third round later that night, a feverish coupling in the bathtub that sends water splashing all over his ensuite, Peter grows more heated more quickly, the need to be sated and filled becoming a near constant need. 

It gets easier to give into it and lay himself bare and give into his body’s needs. The hushed talk between them during the lucid periods are best, discussing everything from string theory to the best pancake toppings. Obviously lobster, truffle flakes and Dom Perignon Rose champagne hollandaise, despite Tony’s rebuke. Ice cream and store-brand chocolate sauce? It’s like he’s _ trying _ to incense Peter.

Those moments of perspicuity become shorter as the day progresses, the moments between his peaks going from several hours to every two or three. By the time the sun sets on his first day, he mourns the loss of clarity art the same time welcoming the oblivion that will make all this yearning go away.

When he falls asleep later that night it’s with Tony’s knot tying them together, sweet murmurings into his damp hairline as the hitch of Tony’s hips rock him, the heady scent of their joining lulling his exhausted body to rest.

* * *

Tony reaches for the water bottle and drains about half of it in one long, satisfying gulp. _ Fuck. _Fuck, he feels sated. His body aches, and the room smells of him and Peter and the heady, addictive scent of sex. 

Peter’s pretty far gone now, almost nothing of his honey eyes left- all dilated pupil- and he’s purring happily, licking at Tony’s neck, still high off the most recent knot.

Which is a good thing, Tony’s gonna need a few hours to recover. Jesus, Peter’s needier than any other omega he’s slept with in heat.

Tony _ loves _it. 

Finally, there's someone capable of keeping up with him. Not to mention the fact that Peter’s a fucking vision. Every single inch of him just beautifully crafted, not a square inch that isn’t absolutely gorgeous. And Tony has explored every single inch, right down to the small scar behind Peter's left ear. He wants to know how it got there. Wants to know if it hurts. He wants to know that it doesn't hurt anymore, when he reverently traces his lips over it. 

“Alpha,” Peter sighs happily, licking tenderly at Tony’s jugular, and Tony grins- soft and fond- and pulls the pretty thing in for a tight hug. 

Who knew? Who in the world could ever have known that prissy princess Peter could be such a sweetheart? Can be so _ needy _ and open to touches and feather-light caresses? It’s so different. Sure, Peter’s fun to argue with, witty and smart and just the right side of _ biting, _but Tony likes this too. Being able to take care of him.

And on that note…

“Time to eat somethin’, baby,” he murmurs, disentangling himself from Peter’s grabby hands and heading over to the desk, where all the supplies have been laid out neatly. He grabs some sparkling rose water and one of Peter’s expensive looking protein bars that promises _high fibre and protein mixed in with delicious truffle oils!_, and takes a moment before heading back to the bed.

Peter’s staring at him with his big eyes, sunk in the bedsheets and pillows, hair a mess, completely unabashed and striking, and Tony winks at him.

Peter _ giggles. _

“Jesus,” Tony murmurs, sitting on the bed and opening the bottle for the omega. “You’re fuckin’ precious, you know that?”

Peter drinks the water obediently, only seeming to realise how thirsty he is when the liquid touches his lips. He drinks greedily, some of it slipping down his chin, and Tony rewards him with a kiss to his forehead. 

“Atta boy,” he murmurs, opening the protein bar and pressing it to Peter’s lips.

The omega recoils. 

Tony frowns. He might not worry about one or two skipped meals during a heat- sometimes the need is so overwhelming that food or just the idea of it can make omegas nauseous, but Peter had only eaten half of what he should have yesterday. He needs his energy. 

“Okay, don’t worry,” Tony soothes, “not feeling this, that’s fine. Let’s see what else we got.”

There are spanish muffins with blueberries, fluffy looking things, he carries two back to the bed and holds it out.

Peter sniffs it and makes a look of disgust, which is weird because Tony _ knows _Peter likes these.

But it’s the same reaction to the lean cuts of ham, to the grapes and cheese, to the expensive rye bread, truffles and chocolate mousse.

When Tony offers out the eclairs, he’s at his wits end. 

“Baby, _ please,” _he pleads worriedly, holding it out, pressing it gently to Peter’s slightly parted lips.

The omega lets out a whimper that’s utterly devastating. 

“Okay fine,” he racks his brain, reaching for his phone. “What do you want? Anything, I’ll get you anything you like.”

“Alpha,” Peter chirps, reaching for him, his smile is breathtaking. His little fingers curl around Tony’s wrist and tug, “come,”

He lets himself get pulled onto the bed, and even though his skin is overheated and Peter is _ radiating _warmth, he pulls the boy into his chest, eyes still on his phone. “C’mon, have a look,” he pulls up the take out app, scrolling through the different options. Everyone likes Krispy Kremes, right? Surely not even Peter could turn down a traditional glaze in this state. 

“Bleurgh,” Peter pouts at the options, nosing at the shell of Tony’s ear and puffing distracting breaths into his hair. 

“You have to eat something,” he insists, “_please.” _

He’s not above begging. He’ll beg. 

The omega loses interest in his tone, though, instead content to roll around the bedsheets and snooze for a while longer. When the omega promptly falls asleep Tony stares, mouth agape as impotent despair rolls through his body.

Tony uses that time to go through the emergency box. There are toys and more protein bars - some foreign looking cereal that he takes out just in case- some creams, but no more _ food. _

He’ll try later tonight, he decides, once Peter wakes up- smelling even more fragrant than he did an hour ago, and asking for him so _ sweetly. _

It’s still on his mind, though, even when that perfect hole clenches around his knot, when Peter’s teeth lodge into his shoulder and he shudders his release, whispering filthy praise into the omega’s ear. 

It’s the first thing he does, knot still in Peter’s hole- reach for the cereal and pull out a handful. 

Peter, dozy from his orgasm, turns away with a sniff, snuggling into Tony’s arms. 

He’s going to have to do something about this.

* * *

His fingers have never moved so feverishly, but the omega help boards are surprisingly helpful. Tony scrolls through them in the dead of night, phone screen burning his eyes, as Peter snores beside him. Taste buds are more sensitive in some omegas, anything that isn’t the scent of their alpha can make them sick. 

Peter’s been sleeping so much, he must not have any energy. 

He must be _hungry. _It’s all Tony’s fault - he should have anticipated this. The guilt makes Tony whimper in distress as he scrolls frantically. _Fuck. _He can’t stand the thought of Peter being hurt, of being hungry and weak and _sad. _This has never happened before, Peter never mentioned _this-_

Peter’s phone buzzes on the bedside table, and Tony looks over even though he knows he shouldn’t. There’s a message on the lock screen.

**Heat started yet? :P**

It’s from Harry.

The sight of it makes Tony snarl, and fling the phone across the room. It hits the wall with a worrying crack, and Peter’s brow furrows in his sleep.

Tony hums apologetically, trying to get himself under control. Okay. Okay. It’s all good, it’s fine.

He gets the take out app back up and orders from every single place. Something will do, Peter will eat _ something. _

It takes some bribing to get the restaurants to cook and deliver at 3am, but they do it. People always do, for money. It feels wrong leaving Peter in the bed alone, even if he is sleeping, and he can still hear that distressed cry that Peter first made when his heat started.

When he thought he’d been abandoned.

Tony kisses the sweat-slicked brow, and promises to be quick. 

Loki helps him carry the bags of food upstairs, face creased with worry. “Is everything okay?” The omega asks, still in his nightclothes. Tony doesn’t even know why he’s awake. “Is Peter alright?”

“He’s not eating,” Tony admits, voice ashamed. His omega won’t even _ eat, _he must be such a shit alpha-

“Not even truffles?”

Tony shakes his head, clutching his hand to his sternum.

Loki worries his bottom lip, unusually frazzled. “He’ll eat something from here.” He says, a promise more to himself than to Tony. The alpha nods, hoping he’s right. What’s the alternative? Tony will buy an entire damn supermarket if he has to.

It feels awful waking Peter up. He only keeps the fairy lights on, the room mostly dark, lit by the gentle glow. Peter whines pitifully, and goes a little blue each time Tony brings food to his face.

The first thirteen places are failures.

He’s at his wits end, when he reaches for the McDonalds bag, pulling out a double whopper with frustrated tears in his eyes.

It’s greasy and it smells great, and Tony could destroy one right now, but he holds it out to Peter, feeling pessimistic. 

Peter licks the side of the burger happily.

“Wait- shit- _ really?” _ Tony laughs, relief coursing through his system as he sits up, yanking the McDonalds bag between them and spilling out its contents. He’s getting grease stains all over the expensive sheets, but fuck it, he’ll pay for them. He brings some fries to Peter’s lips, and they part obediently, chewing and swallowing and _ yes! _

“Oh you _ are _ a good boy,” Tony breathes, reaching in to reward Peter with a kiss. The taste of oil on Peter’s lips is like heaven and hell combined, as is their naked erections rubbing together while a paper bag separates them.

He holds up the remnants of the cheese-laden patty next. The omega whimpers, licking the grease off Tony’s fingers, eyes fervent with appreciation. 

He spends the next hour picking off pieces of the burger, some nuggets, some fries, and Peter eats from his hands like a little bird. He eats until his cheeks look less sallow, till there’s some healthy pink across his cheeks and his lips are smeared with grease.

Tony rewards him with a kiss each time. They get longer, and messier, and Tony fucking loves the taste of McDonalds. He loves the taste of _ Peter. _He never thought in a million years-

When Peter’s finished- every fry, each nugget, all the ketchup- Tony wants to order him more.

But they’re both rock hard, and Peter’s panting, clambering over to straddle Tony as they sit on the bed, to sink onto his cock with a loud moan.

Tony holds him. It’s too intimate, even for heat sex, his hands are too posessive, his kisses too full of emotion. 

“Handsome,” Peter whispers, so quietly Tony’s sure he’s imagining it, until he starts getting butterfly kisses all over his face. On his eyelids, and down his nose. “_My _alpha,” Peter croons, and Tony captures his lips in a bruising kiss, their noses brushing together.

_ Fuck. _

* * *

Peter loses himself somewhere on the second day and somewhat cognitively reemerges on the fourth, the fifth with far more clarity than the flashes of memory days prior. 

Tony doesn’t seem to be flagging at all and has completely abandoned the concept of clothing. He covers up with the sheet under the pretence of modesty, sometimes, but is mostly unashamed by his own nudity.

It will forever be etched into Peter’s brain, the image of Tony laying upon his bed without a stitch of clothing, legs carelessly spread whilst idly chewing on one Peters’ protein bars. All unblemished skin and marble-like muscle he looked like a renaissance painting, a prince indulgently askew on his throne. That was until he’d noticed Peter staring and said, _ do you want to go again? _

Tony could be so tender sometimes that it was easy to forget his default setting is ‘uncultured lout’.

Anyway, Tony’s aptitude for ineptitude aside, it had actually been kind of nice, if Peter’s being honest with himself. Not nice like sunbathing on his yacht whilst sailing in the Maldives nice, but nice like apple pie or May’s hot apple cider.

If his previous heats are anything to go by, today is the last real day of overwhelming need, however blessed with considerable more clarity than the previous few days. The aching emptiness is fewer and far between and tomorrow he probably will not want to be touched at all. 

He already took Tony’s knot once earlier this morning, then his fingers after lunch whilst receiving the most exquisite blow-job. Not that he told the alpha that of course, he wasn’t about to let that go to his head. The next crest was approaching slowly, a leisurely tide encroaching upon the shore. It will probably be the last time he needs to be knotted.

With his head resting upon Tony’s chest as the alpha reads Great Expectations to him, fingers softly raking against his scalp with one hand as the other holds the book, he feels a little sad. It can only be the reluctance to revisit the real world once this is over, but the thought makes him shiver nonetheless.

Tony lowers the book, peering down at him and frowning. “You cold, baby?”

He’s not, but Peter nods anyway.

He feels Tony nose along his temple, the brush of his lips against his skin when he says, “Hate seeing you like this. Let’s have a bath, okay?”

He lets Tony lead him there, an arm around his waist, clinging to the alpha as he manoeuvres around to draw them a bath. Once the water is deemed perfect they climb inside, Peter’s back to Tony’s chest, body bracketed by his knees, the alphas hands stroking his stomach.

Peter shivers harder in the porcelain tub, despite the water being perfectly hot. It causes Tony’s brow to crease in concern and allow some more hot water out of the tap into the tub. It doesn’t help, just in the same way the alphas heat all around him doesn’t help. It’s impossible to explain - he’s burning up everywhere, but his core feels so barren the shivers turn into full-body shudders.

Turning slightly in the embrace he places a desperate kiss on Tony’s lips, whimpering into them when the arms tighten around him. The touch is almost enough to ease the void that’s been growing inside him all day, but inevitably serves to remind him that it’s there, burying deeper and deeper inside of him, carving more out that can be replaced.

So, he kisses Tony deeper, all teeth and tongue, sucking the alphas bottom lip just to get any part inside of him, wants to be merged together, to be filled - 

“Shh,” Tony soothes, stroking along the inside of his thighs. “I know what you need, sweetheart.”

Peter squirms as his fingers come to stroke his hole under the water, quickly growing impatient. “C’mon, Tony, don’t tease. _ Please _, I need -”

He’s shaking apart when he lifts himself up a little, sliding himself along the hard cock beneath him until the head catches on his rim, water coming up in gentles waves upon his chest. Still loose from before he mounts himself on Tony’s cock, rewarded when he is fully seated. Tony groans behind him, the arms still around Peter pulling him back down to rest upon his chest.

“You’re so impatient,” Tony huffs, but there’s no heat behind it. “You think you can just take what you want?”

“Uhuh,” Peter pants, laying his head back to rest on Tony’s wet shoulder. The alphas sets a punishingly slow pace, his water-slick hands roaming down to clamp roughly on Peter’s thighs, restricting him from doing exactly what he wants, rolling his hips slowly into Peter. The water swells around them with each upward thrust, lapping at their skin.

The slide of Tony’s cock inside is a sublime form of torture. It’s both too much and not enough. He wants to take, he wants to take - 

“You think I don’t know what you need?” The alpha whispers lowly in his ear, snuffling at his throat. “You’re not getting it until I’m good and ready, omega. Be - ” _ thrust _ “ - patient.”

_ Patient. _Does Tony even know who he’s talking to? 

Peter growls, wriggling desperately in his hold as the hollow keeps getting deeper, “Why don’t you make me, _ alpha _?”

With a snarl one of Tony’s hands clutching Peter’s thighs travels up to grip his neck, thick fingers pressing harshly against the sensitive underside of his chin, trapping him in place. Heat coils in his gut, making his toes curl against the porcelain of the tub. The afterimage of the ceiling lights burn in his eyes as he’s forced to stare up, completely at Tony’s mercy as he’s forced in place, hot cock pistoning in and out of him. 

The sudden lack of leverage, the command to just sit there and take it makes hot pulses shoot up his spine. His hands, previously scrabbling at Tony’s thighs, come to lazily jack his own cock, his whole body ceding to the alphas hold, muscles going loose.

Tony rumbles approvingly in his chest when Peter goes lax against him. “There you go,” he says, kissing Peter’s cheek. “So good for me.”

Just in that moment Peter _ wants _ to be damn good, wants to hear that pleased hum in his ear, wants to exist in this perfect moment of safety and possession forever. Caught in his own abandonment he loses time again, secure in the hold as Tony leisurely rocks into him, peppering kisses all over his face. 

When Tony knots him a hundred minutes-hours-days later he notices the water has gone cold. 

He begins to shake again when Tony pulls out. It must be the water.

“Are you - is this normal?” Tony asks worriedly, rubbing his back in soothing circles as they pick up reading again. By then night has swept away the colour from the room and the warmth of the blankets pinkens his cheeks. “You’re beginning to worry me here, shortstack. Does this always happen?”

“Of course, happens every time,” Peter lies to them both, trembling violently.

It’s one anomaly. It doesn’t mean anything.

* * *

He’s been staring at the shirt for the last day, biting his bottom lip in indecision as he strokes the hem of the fabric.

It’s Tony’s. An AC/DC band tee that’s obviously old and well-loved, the material soft and thin, the logo faded like it had seen too many washes but was still hanging on. Peter contemplates a great many things, ranging from throwing it in the trash to wearing it to bed, but ends up back where he is, patiently smoothing over the creases and occasionally leaning in to sniff perplexedly.

He doesn’t understand. It’s been two entire days since his heat ended, there’s not one single good reason why this shirt should smell as good as it does.

And yet. 

Peter had found it a little over a day ago, thrown haphazardly during the midst of his heat into the depths of his wardrobe. If he buried his face in the sagging collar where he could tell Tony had bitten it out of habit then no one else has to know - and if the combined scent of saliva and salty sweat made his cock harden a little, well, that’s his business.

Still. It didn’t explain why he hadn’t immediately thrown it away for Tony’s own benefit. Honestly, frat couture was doing nothing for Tony’s figure at all. 

Maybe it was because obviously a cherished piece and not even Peter was heartless enough to discard it. The decent thing to do would be to give it back, right? Just go see Tony for the first time since his heat ended and hand it over to him. Easy.

The thought gives him pause.

What if he just --

No, he should definitely give it back. Tony would notice it was gone and ask for it back anyway.

With that in mind he decides to promptly head to Theta Pi Sigma to return it. If he perhaps primps himself a little longer than is strictly necessary, well it’s because he takes pride in his appearance and there isn’t anything wrong with that. 

It’s the first time he’s gone to the frat unaccompanied. With the shirt nestled in his handbag he stands out the front while he assesses it, Prada sunglasses slipping down his nose as he remembers the last time he’d been here. 

It was almost a different world, thinking back to before. Before the heat had started and all of their interactions were a playful tête-à-tête, utterly vacuous in hindsight, after. He’d woken up in Tony’s arms for a week, after all. He’d had Tony’s quiet snuffling snores in his ear, had seen the way his eyes crinkle at the sides and how he would squint when first woken up as if he forget where he was. 

Maybe what has Peter hesitating is the last time they’d seen each other. By the light of the seventh morning of his heat, the urges were well and truly over - as par for the course with his heats, he found himself bone-tired and didn’t want to be touched. 

But he’d tolerated the soft kisses Tony had left on his cheeks, his forehead as the shivering swiftly subsided. He didn’t find himself bothered when the alpha combed through his hair and gently thumbed over his eyebrows in a way that Peter might call reverent if he didn’t know any better. At that point hormones and pheromones were still king, making puppets out of both of them, so he told himself there was nothing to read into. 

There was also nothing to read into the way that Tony stayed with him until night had fallen and made no sexual overtures, leaving only when he was sure Peter was okay and could take care of himself - nor the way that Tony had cupped his cheeks and kissed him sweetly just before leaving.

It’s that memory that nudges him into the house.

He doesn’t bother with the doorbell this time, allowing himself inside. Upon entry he immediately spots some familiar faces who wave to him in greeting. Alphas lounge around in their underwear, drinking beer and eating pizza despite it being barely eleven on a Sunday morning. Some of them elbow each other and snicker, goading each other to say something to the lone omega.

He ignores them all, marching up to the tall, blond guy he saw the last time he was here.

“You,” he says, looking at him over the top of his sunglasses. “Which one is Tony’s bedroom?”

The question earns him a few excited cheers from the living room occupants and he rolls his eyes in exasperation. Alphas, so immature.

“Top floor, third door on your right,” the guy says after a moment, blue eyes considering. 

Peter gives him half-hearted thanks and heads for the stairs. It’s not an easy journey in heels but he refuses to grip onto the railing for support, too wary of whatever sticky substance his bare hand would come into contact with and whatever communicable disease it’d carry. It’s good for his calves, if nothing else.

The decor gets more hideous as he ascends each floor, three in total. The carpeting on the stairs is green. The lopsided Ramones poster on the wall outside someone's bedroom? Pass. A lone ashtray on the ground in the middle of the hall makes him gag. The corpse of what was once a yucca plant horrifies him, withered and brown and sagging against it’s terracotta base. Good _ lord _.

By the time he reaches Tony’s bedroom he’s sincerely regretting decision to be here. This time he does knock, rapping his knuckles gently on the door. He waits patiently for a response, rocking on the spot, heartbeat quickening. 

No response comes. Huh. Maybe Tony isn’t home after all.

Peter knocks again, harder this time and calls out to the alpha. Nothing calls back out and the door remains shut.

Oh, well. That’s fine, Peter thinks, he wasn’t here to see Tony anyway - he can just slip in, leave the shirt and go. 

Twisting the door handle and finding it unlocked, Peter lets himself in. The sight that greets him makes him smile.

With his back to Peter, Tony appears to be dancing a little on the spot and wielding a toy lightsaber. The tapered end is aimed at his opponent - a long-necked robot who tries to parry Tony’s blows, chirping excitedly when the lightsaber makes contact with its little claws.

Headphones over his ears, Tony doesn’t seem to have noticed Peter’s entry, allowing him to stand there for a moment, strangely charmed by the display. The robot makes sluggish attempts at snapping its metal fingers at Tony, easily dodged by the alphas flighty footwork.

“Take that, fiend,” Tony says, lunging to tap the robot on it’s base, side-stepping to strike it’s neck. “And that! And _ that _!” 

It isn’t until the robot focuses on the intruder, long neck swivelling to retract its claws towards Peter that Tony notices he is there at all. Whirring around in confusion, Tony just about slips on the spot when he sees that he’s been caught, a flush creeping up onto his cheeks as the lightsaber drops to the carpet.

“Oh hey there, fun-size,” Tony laughs nervously, quickly slipping the headphones down to cradle the back of his neck. “There isn’t any chance we could agree that you didn’t see that, right?”

Peter bites his bottom lip to stop the grin from overtaking his face. “Not a chance, Stark.”

“Didn’t think so,” Tony mutters, eyes following Peter as he steps further into the room. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“You left a shirt,” Peter says distractedly, the concentration of the alpha's scent in the room making him light-headed for a moment. The bedroom walls are littered with band-posters and stray globs of blu tack, a king-single with crumpled bed-sheets is in the far corner, muddy sneakers clutter the floor along with piles of dirty laundry and video games. The furniture is frightfully mismatched, the bed frame wrought iron whilst the study desk is a ghastly maple wood. 

Humble abode is being generous.

But that’s not what he’s here for, he has one simple task --

“Who’s this?” He asks, unable to help himself. Approaching the robot slowly, he can see Tony watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“This is DUM-E,” Tony says proudly, shuffling over to affectionately pat the robot on it’s base. “I made him when I was fourteen.”

It’s a testament to Tony’s brilliance, the life-like way in which it reacts to Tony’s ministrations, the whirs and chirps in response to it’s creators voice. It’s _ adorable._

When Peter gets near enough DUM-E grows more animated, neck bobbing in mounting excitement as Peter draws closer. When he gets within reaching distance the claws extend out to gently pinch at him, gripping the fabric of his black cashmere sweater like a child making grabby hands.

“Now, now,” Peter tuts patiently, stroking it’s long neck. “None of that. This is an original Yves Saint Laurent.”

DUM-E listens to his directions, butting it’s metal head against Peter’s shoulder instead. His heart swells.

“Look at you,” Peter coos, reaching out to trace the metal screws on its head. “Aren’t you just a sweetheart?”

“I don’t know about ‘sweetheart’,” Tony argues, siding up next to Peter to observe his creation. “Big ol’ sucker is definitely more like it.”

It’s a hard task to not melt against the line of warmth at his side, to turn his head just slightly to bury his nose in the source of the scent that’s been haunting him for weeks. He turns inwards slightly to direct Tony an amused look but gets distracted by how fondness makes Tony’s eyes seem bigger, the brown more warm.

“Well if you made him then ‘sucker’ does seem about right,” Peter acknowledges, unable to resist the teasing smile at Tony’s offended look. He follows Tony’s eyes as they wander down to his lips, the alpha's mouth agape in a suspended retort.

“He seems to like you,” Tony croaks, throat bobbing as he clears it. “You should come to visit him more often. He’d like that.”

He softens a little at the thought, even if it conflicts with his intentions of making a clear cut from the alpha. But surely there wouldn’t be any harm in coming to visit every once in a while, just to make sure Tony hasn’t repurposed the bot or neglected his upkeep, right? 

“I’d like that too,” he whispers, thinking that the relieved slump of Tony’s shoulders must just be his imagination. 

Peter had plans to get a facial that afternoon, but instead spends it in Tony’s bedroom, tinkering with DUM-E and sharing study notes. It’s weirdly nice, shoulders pleasantly sore from being hunched over the wiring. 

The heat doesn’t get brought up at all until Peter draws his phone from his pocket to take a selfie with the robot, taking shots with multiple angles.

“I’m sorry that I threw your phone,” Tony said suddenly from where he’s perched on the bed. “During, y’know. My hand just slipped, I don’t know what happened.”

The skittish look in Tony’s eyes makes Peter think there’s something he isn’t saying - and definitely something to explore down the track - but he considers his moves carefully and doesn’t bring it up. Not yet.

“Elon Musk gave me this phone personally, Tony,” he huffs. “I think it can withstand even _ your _ aversion to coordination.”

Tony ducks his head, but Peter still catches the smile. 

It’s not until he gets home hours later that he remembers the shirt still in his bag. He delicately retrieves it and places it in a drawer, next to his favourite pyjamas. 

He doesn’t mention it again. Tony doesn’t ask for it back.

* * *

It’s not being weird. It’s _ not. _

It is not, no matter what Clint says, being a creepy stalker.

He just happens to need a new elective after his chemical radiology class re-timetables to clash with his Core Mechanics of Engineering. And it just so happens that one of the replacement modules on the list is _ Structural Integrity _ and Tony just _ happens _to know that Peter takes that class.

It’s _ not _ stalking.

Peter’s just- well, he’s suddenly a lot more bearable after his heat. It’s like Tony’s been given a glimpse into a softer, sweeter side, like suddenly there’s something _ more _ to the cool, polished veneer of expensive perfume and runway outfits. It’s something beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with Peter’s flawless skin and big eyes, it’s something _ warm _and Tony has a feeling that he’s one of the only people to see it.

He wants to cherish it.

So, in a spur-of-the-moment, definitely not-thinking-it-through act of spontaneity, he enrols. 

“Creepy stalker,” Clint sighs, and Tony glares at him. 

But there is a certain nervousness when he reaches the Hawkins building on Monday morning. Oh god, is this _ weird? _Is he overstepping a boundary now? There was that whole contract, maybe it should just be- maybe he shouldn’t-

His eyes shut for a moment before he heads into the building. 

He’s spent heats with omegas before, but he can hear Peter’s laughter, can still feel the little butterfly kisses he was given, can still remember Peter saying he was _ handsome, _saying that he wanted to be- kissed in the rain like in that film.

The omega, who’d once thrown a pair of diamond trimmed stilettos at an expectant alpha after being presented with a box of “cheap” chocolates on Valentine’s Day, is a _ romantic. _Tony never would have guessed.

He wants to know _ more, _and that’s what has him pushing the door open and heading inside.

He’s early, for once, so no one’s in their seats yet, they’re just talking and lounging around near the board. Nobody seems to notice him walk in, too engrossed in relaying the events of some party that happened last week.

And there, in a pink quilted crop top and a white fur jacket, is Peter Parker. He’s perched on one of the benches, long legs crossed over each other and offering a glimpse of those milky thighs.

Tony’s had them wrapped around his hips. He’s sucked hickies onto them.

They’re healed now. He mourns their loss.

But just the sight of Peter is enough to assuage his doubts, and he saunters over, lowering his sunglasses and smirking. “Baby, you’re a vision.”

Peter’s head snaps up in surprise, and his face breaks into a smile before he quickly schools it into something more neutral.

Tony feels something loving curl around his heart.

“Tony,” Peter hums, “well, isn’t this a surprise. And of course I am,” 

He reaches out and tucks a honey curl behind Peter’s ear, half waiting to be slapped away. Peter doesn’t though, just lets him like a tolerant cat. “I had to switch electives, I didn’t realise you took this.”

Peter doesn’t seem to notice the lie, and instead he just smirks. “Well, I hope you can keep up.”

“Yeah, good luck,” comes a new voice, and another alpha saunters over, and jumps up to sit beside Peter on the bench. “MacGregor is a _ dick _and always gives surprise tests. He calls them ‘knowledge parties’.”

Tony doesn’t have to be a genius to put the pieces together. This is Harry. It’s infuriating how _ right _he looks beside Peter. In some designer green sweater and perfectly coiffed curls. With his wide smile and effortless aura of superiority. 

The fact that Harry’s helped Peter through his heats, the fact that he’s _ seen _the omega when he’s flushed and needy- it’s driving Tony to the edge with jealousy. 

So, he puts on his best air of casualness and shrugs. “I’m pretty good on my feet.” 

The two alphas look at each other for a moment, something bitter between them. “Harry, Tony, Tony, Harry,” Peter says, gesturing between them, his tone disinterested: “I’m _ so _ glad you’re finally meeting.”

“Tony Stark,” Harry laughs, nodding like he expected nothing less. “From all I’ve heard about you, I’m amazed to see you here on time. Wasn’t there a party on Dusty Lane last night? Figured you’d still be nursing a hangover.”

Tony grins sharply. “Normally, yes. I can’t help it, I’m in high demand. I can try and swing you an invite.”

“What good’s an invitation if the event is subpar?” Harry muses. Tony decides in that moment, he hates him. He’s pretentious and snobbish but not in the way that Peter is. There’s a _ meanness. _ Peter is effortless in his grace, but Harry’s trying to prove something. Tony doesn’t know what it is. He can only watch as Harry turns to Peter and grins. “Remember that Halloween party last fall, Pete? Exclusive guest list, fifty people only, it was _ amazing.” _

Peter swipes at imaginary dust on his skirt and half shrugs. “Didn’t Kennedy get food poisoning from those spider cupcakes?”

Tony can feel his smirk as it spreads across his face. It’s vicious and triumphant, and Harry half-glares at him. Whatever game Harry’s trying to win, Peter isn’t playing.

“Whatever,” Harry sighs, reaching over to rub his hand through Peter’s hair- dislodging the curl Tony had tenderly tucked behind his ear- “There’s a leaf in your hair,” he lies.

Tony wants to punch him in the face.

“Harry.” Peter frowns, cocking his head as his hair topples into his forehead. It’s a warning, and while Tony’s grateful (and a little aroused), he can take care of snobs like Harry Osbourne. They thrive on attention, and Tony won’t give him any. 

Instead, he jerks his head towards the steps heading up to the back row, and very purposely only addresses Peter. “Well, gorgeous? You won’t make me face my first lesson alone, will you? Not when I’ve shown up on time and everything.”

Peter purses his pretty pink lips and looks considering. “And why shouldn’t I?” He asks, blinking with long lashes and faux-innocence. 

Harry’s hand is dangerously close to brushing Peter’s where it rests, and Tony can hardly hold back his snarl, so he slides up close, and wraps his arm around Peter’s waist, and practically lifts him up onto his feet.

Ever graceful, Peter doesn’t stumble, but elegantly lets himself be led. 

“Such a brute,” Peter sighs loudly, the sigh of the long-wearied, but he doesn’t say anything when Tony curls his fingers over the bare skin of his hip. 

Maybe he likes it, Tony hopes vainly, as he heads into the back row and settles in. Maybe he likes Tony being possessive almost as much as Tony likes leaving a mark.

He rests his arm over the back of the ledge, and Peter leans against it easily, laying out all his books. “You’re a caveman.” Peter admonishes, sounding more fond than anything, as he gets out his phone. “Now I have to text Harry not to be offended that I’ve _ ditched _him-”

“Good, I didn’t like how he was lookin’ at you, anyway.”

Peter presses his lips together like he’s fighting back a smile. “Oh? And how was that?” He asks curiously.

Tony flounders, searching for an answer that doesn’t give away just how fucking intrigued he is- when Peter leans over to give him a kiss on the cheek.

He can smell the vanilla perfume, feel little tingles of pleasure across his skin when Peter’s glossy lips brush his jaw. He can’t help but smile like a dope. “What was that for?” He beams, because he wants to know what it is that results in Peter’s rare displays of affection. 

“I don’t know,” Peter sighs languidly, writing the date at the top of his page. “I thought maybe your face could use some colour.”

Tony wears the red lipstick mark on his cheek all day, and thinks _ yeah, _maybe Peter likes possessiveness too. 

* * *

It just sort of happens. Sharing a class, texting each other, working on DUM-E together. It happens in a way that’s natural, like something that should’ve been happening for months. Somehow, over the next week, Peter becomes someone Tony sees everyday. Someone Tony wants to message if something goes well. Someone he could call tentatively call a _ friend, _if he didn’t maybe want to call him something else. 

“I saved you a seat!” Tony calls, kicking out the seat opposite him as he spots Peter near the little bistro just off-campus where they’ve agreed to meet between class. 

Peter sees him and beams, skipping over elegantly. He’s dressed for the sunshine today, in a scarlet summer dress studded with rubies and paired with primrose lace-up heels; little ribbons tied perfectly around his ankles. His curls bounce adorably as he comes over and takes his seat, looking only mildly put out that Tony didn’t stand up and offer it to him. It’s harder to tell behind those heart-shaped sunglasses. “Hi Tony,” he says sweetly, pulling out his lunch. “Did you have class already?”

“Not yet,” Tony murmurs warmly, basking in the sunlight and Peter’s presence. “You just had chemistry, right?”

Peter lays out his little sushi-set meticulously, covering each prawn with a perfect amount of soy sauce before reaching for his silver chopsticks. “Mmhm. I have molecular biology in an hour.”

“I’ll walk you,” he offers immediately, like he’s been doing more and more over the past few days, and Peter blushes.

“Thank you.”

Tony’s got a plateful of fries which he picks at languidly, content to listen to Peter complain about one of the newest pledges. Apparently they’ve committed one of the cardinal sins of the sorority- something about borrowing jewellery, Tony isn’t too sure. He watches Peter eat; the epitome of sophistication, and can’t help but chuckle. 

“What?” Peter asks, pausing with a piece of crispy ebi held perfectly in his chopsticks. 

“Nothing,” Tony laughs, “it’s just- you act so fancy, but you like hamburgers and all that really.”

He can spot Peter’s eyebrows furrow in displeasure. “No, I don’t.” He states simply, his tone broaching no room for argument.

Tony rolls his eyes. “You were practically salivating during your heat for a bite of McDonalds.” He laughs, fond and amused at the memory, “I never would have guessed in a million years that her majesty Peter Parker would be _ begging _for a double patty deluxe-”

Peter’s chair screeches as he stands up and the alpha startles. 

“Oh god,” Tony groans, tipping his head back into the heat of the sun’s rays, “you’re not about to strop, are you?” They were having such a good time, why can’t the omega just take a joke?

Peter’s voice, when he finally speaks, is barely above a whisper. “I would _ never _joke about something you wanted during your rut.” He says, and Tony frowns- but it’s only when Peter turns to leave, leaning down to pick up his purse, when Tony sees behind the lenses for a fraction of a second.

Peter’s eyes are wet with tears.

As soon as he sees it, Peter’s whirling around to leave, and Tony hurries to his feet- his own chair falling with a clatter.

“Hey, hey, Petey, _ wait, _ would you-” he stumbles over someone’s bag, and has to jog to catch up to Peter, who’s walking away briskly. “Peter!” He catches his shoulder, but Peter shrugs out of his grip. “Peter, _ please-” _

“What?” The omega snaps, whirling around. 

“Peter,” Tony croaks, “are you _ crying?” _

“No.” Peter lies, even though his cheeks glisten under the sun’s telling gaze. “Just because you think it’s funny to joke about what-what people say during their heat- when they’re _ vulnerable, _ I don’t care. Just because I thought- I-” he sniffs, going for nonchalant but coming across as _ hurt _ in a way that strikes Tony horribly. “I stupidly thought that you were being- I don’t know! _ Tender _ in a moment where we- I thought- but _ no. _Everything’s so funny- why don’t you just…” his voice wobbles, and he has to brush his fingers under his glasses and Tony’s heart breaks. “Just go away.”

He’s never seen Peter cry. He’s thrown tantrums before, when his favourite designer won’t make a custom dress in his size, or a hissy fit when Tony turns up in an outfit that doesn’t match, or when the book he needs for class gets delayed postage.

But _ cry? _ Peter doesn’t cry- and Tony’s made him. He shouldn’t have joked about it, he _ knows _it’s not polite, but he- he hadn’t meant to hurt Peter. 

That moment _ had _ been something tender. Something sweet amidst all the sex. Tony hates that Peter thinks he cheapened it. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, shame-faced.

Peter pauses, and seems to deflate. “It doesn’t matter.” He mumbles, “I’ve got to go to class.”

* * *

The weather stays hot the next day too, despite the approaching frost. Students flock outside greedily, soaking up the sunshine while they can. Tony’s phone buzzes a few time, inviting him for a few games of soccer.

He declines the invitations. He has bigger things on his mind. 

Namely, tracking Peter Parker.

Loki gives him a bored look when he opens the door of the sorority to see Tony standing on the steps. The omega’s got his hair tied back and is in a green bikini, skin streaked with suncream. “Peter isn’t here, Tony. And I want to get back to the pool. And before you ask me where he is- I’m not going to tell you. Because I don’t talk to brutes who make fun of the things an Omega asks for in heat.” Loki huffs. “If I told Thor what you did, he would _ destroy _you. As it is, I don’t care enough.”

Then the door is slammed in his face.

Well, Tony thinks forlornly, he deserved that.

He ends up wandering campus. Peter’s not lounging by the sports park, or at any of the nearby cafes. He’s not on the benches on the green or sprawled out in the shade under the huge willow-trees.

It occurs to Tony dimly, as he wanders, that Loki could have been lying. 

But fate is kind to him, and as he nears the lake, he sees a few people dotted around on blankets and sure enough- on a pink, checkered picnic blanket is Peter Parker.

He’s got a half-open wicker basket beside him (there’s a fucking bottle of_ wine _poking out), and he’s lying on his front, ankles crossed, a book splayed open in front of him, and a long straw from a glass of ice tea at his lips.

The way he’s lying makes his silky white shorts ride up and Tony wants to reach out and touch. Instead, he clears his throat.

Peter looks up as Tony’s shadow falls over him, and he immediately turns back to his book; disinterested. “What is it, Anthony?” 

Okay, that’s not _ great. _“I have something for you.” He admits, getting onto his knees on the edge of the blanket. Peter sighs, sounding put-out, but obligingly closes the book, rests his pretty cheek on his hand and looks at Tony expectantly.

Tony shrugs off his backpack and removes the single-stemmed peach rose, only a little crushed, and pack of m&ms thankfully not melted.

Peter snorts into his hand before he can stop himself, lips curving into a reluctant smile as soon as he recognises the items. “Moron,” he mutters, reaching for the rose. He sniffs it and exhales happily, before taking the m&ms with an eye roll. “For what it’s worth,” he says, as he opens the packet, “I was going to be mad at you,”

Tony takes the opportunity to flop onto his belly beside him, tugging Peter’s book over to look at the cover. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I almost tarnished a pretty fantastic memory.”

He can feel Peter’s pleased blush beside him, and he nudges their shoulders together.

“So, what’s this then? Another autobiography?”

“It’s vogue’s history of the shoe.”

“Ew.”

Peter slaps his shoulder. “Shut up and try to _ learn something, _okay?”

Tony ends the day with a sunburn, an inordinate amount of knowledge about shoes, and another kiss on the cheek by a one Peter B. Parker. 

* * *

Tony pauses with his hand on the knob of his bedroom door. There’s something fragrant in the air and if he listens hard enough, he can hear Peter’s gentle murmuring and DUM-E’s excited whirring.

It makes his heart go warm, and he pushes the door open and sure enough, he’s greeted to the sight of Peter sitting cross-legged on the huge silk cushion he’s insisted on bringing every time he comes over, his fingers knuckle deep in the wiring of DUM-E’s back as the bot chirps happily.

“What are you doing to my boy?” Tony grins, patting DUM-E on the head and setting down his satchel. 

When Peter looks up, he’s flushed and there’s a screwdriver between his teeth. He’s got huge, black rimmed designer glasses perched on his nose and Tony wants to toss him onto the bed and-

Peter pulls out the screwdriver and starts refastening the back plate. “I’m changing his charging wire to gold. You do know it has a higher corrosion resistance, right? It’ll charge him so much faster than the copper alloy you were using.”

“The copper matches his-” Tony pauses, eyes going wide at the sight of DUM-E’s new little claws. They’re not copper anymore, they’re-

“Rose gold,” Peter beams, and DUM-E whirls around to start pinching at Peter’s yellow sweater in a way that he does when he likes something.

Oh god. DUM-E likes Peter more than he likes Tony.

“You’re so handsome,” Peter coos to the little bot, catching DUM-E’s receptors and pressing sweet kisses onto them.

DUM-E bleeps erratically, spinning with delight. He rolls up to Tony and whirls.

“Yeah, fine,” Tony grumbles, rubbing his face, “very handsome. Didn’t realise you cared about the way you looked.” Tony’s his _ creator! _He should be the stupid little robot’s favourite.

DUM-E and Peter let out little affronted sounds and DUM-E pinches Tony’s leg unhappily.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” Peter chirps, reaching his arms up. Tony can’t help but go over, scoop the boy into his arms and lay him on the bed. Peter preens like a satisfied cat, flexing his fingers. “How was class?”

Tony wants to answer him, but he’s too busy relishing in the fact that this is routine now. Peter’s here, in his bedroom in the fraternity, lounging around with DUM-E and looking completely comfortable. He’s here, waiting for Tony to come back from class, it’s intimate, it’s _ nice. _He wants it all the time.

He’s gonna have to do something about this.

* * *

Something, as it turns out, is _ not _showing up to Peter’s fancy picnic covered in soot and dust from his most recent experiment. 

It’s not his fault though, really, unexpected things happen in the lab. Besides, he was wearing his safety goggles. 

He looks a bit like a mess as he strolls towards the grass, but he relishes in the mad scientist look of it all, and waves brightly when he spots Peter and the other members of the Winter Formal committee.

Even from across the lawn, he can see the narrowed eyes and pursed lips of disapproval. 

_ Shit. _

“Hey, baby,” he grins once he reaches them, “and everyone else.” He offers them a small salute. A few of them smile warmly at him, some of the others cringe at his attire. 

“Don’t call me that, and- are you _ smoking?” _Peter accuses incredulously, and Tony hastily pats at the small flames on his cuff. 

“Uhh no no, just a small mishap in the lab.” 

“Oh! Is that why one of the fire alarms went off?” One of the betas sitting on the blanket asks, and Tony winces.

Peter glares at him. “That was _ you?” _

“Enough about me,” he insists, crossing his legs and getting comfortable, “what were you guys talking about? Have you decided to go with the AC/DC theme I recommended for the party?”

Peter bristles. “It’s not a party, and _ of course not. _We’re thinking about a Winter Wonderland theme.”

Calling that _ cliche _probably wouldn’t win him any more points. Instead, he nods at Peter’s suggestions and plays nice whenever one of his friends comment on the colour of the confetti or what drinks should be served.

All in all, he thinks he’s recovering pretty well, when Peter turns to him dismissively. “Go back and shower, Anthony, we’re going to keep planning in the library.”

He blinks in surprise, but winks. “Aye aye, captain.”

Peter shoves gently at him. “_Go, _heathen.” 

“Wait, are you mad at me?”

He doesn’t get an answer to that, just a few pitying looks from the rest of the committee as they gather their stuff. 

He sighs and collapses onto the grass, and thinks maybe Peter’s right, because he does smell, really rather strongly, of ash. 

* * *

Peter doesn’t understand. It’s not that complicated.

The furious click of Manolo Blahnik against the unpolished flooring of the Theta Pi Sigma house is music to Peters ears.

Combined with the intimidating echo of his six-inch pumps and the stormy stomp through the threshold, alphas part for him like the red sea. Surprised jaws drop like dominos as Peter passes through the crowd. He doesn’t spare any of them a single glance, chin held high and ascending the stairs that leads to Tony’s floor.

One alpha decides to get loyal and upon sighting Peter yells to the floor above, “Hey Tony, get your pants back on - ya boy is here!”

Rounding on his heel Peter stalks towards the alpha, pointing a finger in his face. “I am _ not _ his boy,” Peter snaps, clicking his fingers in the guys face. “Got it?”

The sandy blond stumbles backwards upon his indignant approach, nodding as his back hits the bannister. The startled speechlessness has his mouth dropping open then closed like beached fish, hands gesturing uselessly.

“The answer is yes,” Peter supplies through clenched teeth.

“Yeah - yes, _ yes _! I got it, sir, omega sir.”

Satisfied with the adequate snivelling, Peter resumes his journey upwards, not bothering to knock on the door of Tony’s bedroom before inviting himself in without preamble. 

The alpha scrambles to his feet, the wails of Black Sabbath filling the room before Peter stomps over to Tony’s study desk and slams the lid of his laptop closed, cutting of the music. Luckily, Tony does have his pants on, an engineering textbook and the laptop the only evidence of any activities. 

It does nothing to temper his mood though, whirling around to scowl at Tony, the heels putting him at eye-level with the alpha. A manicured hand reaches out to grip Tony’s jaw, peach painted nails pressing into the skin of his cheeks as Peter turns his face from side to side. 

“I take it you’re still mad at me?” Tony asks through his squished cheeks.

“Have you even _ showered _?” Peter scolds, spotting a tell-tale black smudge behind Tony’s ear and another on his neck. “Did you just wash your face and call it good? I mean honestly, Anthony --”

“I showered!” Tony protests, pulling out of Peters grip to hold his hands up. “I promise, see?”

A quick scan of the room further infuriates Peter. The trash is overflowing with crumpled tissues and take-out cartons, the books on his shelves are in disarray, clothes in a heap in one corner of the room. It smells sour, like cheap lo mein, worn socks and excessive solitary activities that Peter doesn’t want to know about. DUM-E clicks in distress by Tony’s bedside, Peter makes a mental note to comfort him later. 

“It’s honestly hard to tell, considering how much you enjoy living in your own filth. I mean, would it kill you to open a window and maintain some semblance of hygiene around here?”

“Hold the fire, baby,” Tony frowns, stumbling back as Peter stalks forward. “I’m confused, what exactly are you mad about?”

Peter retrieves his Clive Christian Imperial Majesty perfume from his handbag and spritzes the immediate area unable to handle it any longer, spraying the alpha for good measure who sneezes at the incoming scent. 

“I’m mad,” Peter says, recapping the perfume, “because you showed up covered in muck to our meeting --”

“Our date,” Tony corrects.

“Our _ meeting_,” Peter continues, pushing Tony to sit on the desk chair behind him, the alpha going down with a surprised _ oof _ . “You might not care about which louts are seen hanging around you, but I do. You showing up like you rolled around in _ soot _ like a dog is not acceptable. People were staring Tony, it was humiliating.”

He punctuates his point by climbing on top of Tony’s lap, the alpha's hands coming up to rest on his thighs to steady him. A need comes over him, arms coming around to circle Tony’s neck, his hips grinding down onto Tony’s groin. 

A frustrated sigh escapes his lips. “You live like an animal. I don’t understand why you’re so bad at taking care of yourself, it’s _ infuriating _.”

“Baby,” Tony whispers, head tilting forward to pant into the hollow of Peter’s throat, “my experiment exploded, I told you--”

Peter rises on his knees to give Tony the room to unbuckle his belt and shuffle his pants down. When he settles back down upon the alphas now bare cock, he threads his fingers through Tony’s hair, pulling it roughly. as a hand sneaks under his skirt. finger comes to prod at his hole through his underwear.

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your baby.”

“No?” Tony queries, groaning as his finger parts the material and presses against the furled skin. “What do you prefer then, shortstack? Sweetheart, maybe? Princess Parker?”

“Is everything a joke to you?” Peter snaps, tugging at the handful of hair, hips rolling. “You could have been seriously hurt, you utter jackass, and you want to - _ ohh, right there _ -” he cuts off, head falling forward as the finger breaches him, slick doing the work to glide the way. He doesn’t know when _ that _ happened.

“I’m sorry, you were saying?” Tony prompts, kissing wetly in a line down the column of his throat. “You wanted to reschedule our date?”

“We are _ not _ dating,” he insists heatedly, using the grip on Tony’s hair to bring his face up to meet him in a bruising kiss. “We have an agreement. I didn’t spend four hours getting you fitted for a matching tuxedo to the Winter Formal so you could incinerate yourself beforehand. You _ know _ what that dress means to me, Tony.”

There’s a weird ache in his heart, an aborted sense of mourning, arrested and unresolved beneath his sternum. Prep be damned, he thinks, rising up on his knees. He pulls aside the crotch of his panties with a single hand and reaching down to grip Tony’s cock, hard and hot with the other, sinking himself down on it.

A strangled sigh is released unbidden from his mouth, filling the room as his hands rise up to settle upon Tony’s broad shoulders.

It’s always a whole other experience, feeling the alpha in and around him without the haze of heat blurring everything, without the fire begging him to take. He takes it now because he wants to, wants this contact, needs to feel Tony solid and warm beneath him rather than needing to be taken. 

The cock pistoning inside him is feverishly hot and the stretch of it hurts just a little, as does the strain in his thighs as he lifts himself up and lowers himself down. But the burn is so fucking good, the sting setting sparks off behind his eyes, stomach coiled tight with building pleasure as he works them over, Tony’s hands gripping his ass with bruising force.

It must be the arousal, Peter thinks, that make the smokey smudges on Tony’s olive skin seem endearing.

“We’re not dating,” he repeats, quickening the pace desperately as his orgasm nears, Tony’s hand jacking his cock in tandem with the rise and fall of his hips. Their foreheads tip together, Tony’s strength holding him up as his energy wanes, the fury bleeding out of him as their eyes meet.

Tony’s eyes scrunching shut as he comes, once the void of the room is full with their moans, the unstifled sighs. The grip on Peter’s ass tightens painfully, driving upwards and rolling out his release into Peter’s slick passage with stutterd movement. 

The hand jacking his cock hurries him to completion shortly after, the lace of his panties soiled sticky with his cum. 

In the afterglow, Peter shouldn’t find Tony wiping his release on his own skin enchanting. But the thought of telling him to stop combining their scents leaves a bad taste in his mouth, a yawning deficit in their combined whole that thieves the words away from him.

It’s not the agreement that makes him shiver when Tony presses a wet kiss to his cheek, his temple, the corner of his mouth. It doesn’t make his whole body shudder as Tony wraps his up on his arms and slides their noses together.

He’s screwed, he realises, when Tony picks him up and carries him over to his twin-single, laying him reverently upon the crumpled sheets when Peter goes boneless against him. 

“Hey, I got you, baby,” Tony whispers, kissing him softly as he curls around him, petting Peter’s hair with gentle fingers, sliding his panties off with his free hand. “It’s okay, sshh, I got you.”

“You can’t do that again,” Peter whispers, eyes prickling as he closes them shut. “You have to be careful.”

“Okay,” Tony promises easily, carding his fingers through the nape of Peters neck, nosing at his temple. “No accelerants in the near future for me, how’s that sound?”

He never embraced Harry like this, bodies flushed together and trading lazy kisses against the orange sunset glaze. Never stroked the slope of the man's nose like he does to Tony now, pressing his lips to the apple of his cheek, revelling in the silk soft skin. Tony is… he’s special. No one has ever made him feel so safe before, challenged him to be better.

They’re not dating, Peter acknowledges as they wrap tightly around each other, but they probably should be.

* * *

The last practise of the season leaves him puffing out icy breath and tugging on his sweater over sweat-slicked skin to keep the chill at bay. The ground is hard with wintry soil, and he can’t wait to go home, order some take out and binge some Netflix.

Steve pats him on the back breathlessly, wiping sweat out of his eyes. “Good practise, Tony. We should win on Friday. Your friend Bruce is awesome.”

“After we win you owe me drinks,” Tony grins, shoving his waterbottle into the bottom of his bag and reaching for his phone on the bench. 

A single messages glows in the dark:

_Princess: :( !!!_  
  
Tony frowns and immediately replies ** _B there in five. _ **

Peter responds after a moment with: _ bring chocolate. _

Oh god, it must be bad. 

Tony gives up thoughts of a warm night in, and instead makes the trek to the chocolatier's on seventh that he knows Peter likes. It’s closed at this time of the evening, but a few phone calls and a bit of name dropping has the disgruntled attendant coming back in and stiffly giving Tony a box of Heart of Cupid chocolate hearts. 

It’s a good thing Tony always carries a few hundred dollar bills on him, because his card is back in his room. 

It starts to snow as he nears the sorority house, and his shorts don’t offer much resistance to the frosty breeze, so he’s shivering like an icicle by the time Loki pulls open the door, and the warm golden light of inside pours onto him. 

Loki takes one long, unimpressed look, before opening the door wider. “He’s in his room.” He informs Tony, eyeing the box of chocolates. “And _ I’m _never opposed to a spontaneous gift of chocolates.”

Tony snorts, shuffling his way inside. “Oh sure, I’ll just show up here with chocolates for you so Thor can beat me into a bloody pulp. Sounds inviting.” As if he’d start bringing chocolates for omegas who weren’t his boyf-, he cuts off that train of thought before it can start again. 

“Doesn’t it?” Loki smiles sweetly, disappearing back into the lounge.

Tony haphazardly wipes his feet onto the mat because if Peter’s already upset, he definitely doesn’t want to make things worse by leaving a trail of footprints. 

He heads up the stairs and knocks hesitantly on Peter’s door.

There’s no answer.

Tony knocks again, a little more worried. “Hey, baby?” He calls through the white wood, and he thinks he hears a muffled groan.

It’s enough to have him twisting the gold knob, but Peter’s not there. The bed is still made and empty, and everything is as pristine and perfect as always.

Tony stands there, feeling confused.

Before he hears another pitiful wail, and it’s so like the sound Peter made when he was in pain during his heat that Tony moves instinctively towards the closet.

He pulls open the doors of the enormous walk in, and sure enough, surrounded by _Burberry_, _Valentino_ and _Balenciaga_ is Peter. He’s lying at the bottom of the glass spiral stairs that twist up towards the small upper floor of his closet, and for one horrible second, Tony thinks he’s fallen. 

But then Peter turns his head, auburn curls spilling out onto silks and satins, and there’s ice cream stains on his lips and a very pitiful look on his face.

Tony can’t help but laugh. 

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, closing the door and coming inside- careful not to touch the racks of obscenely expensive clothing- “what are you doing in here?”

“It’s where I always come when my life is _ over.” _Peter wails dramatically, sprawled out like an overly theatrical renaissance painting. He’s not in his pyjamas, which surprises Tony. Instead, Peter’s dressed like he just got back from a lecture: pleated white tennis skirt and tantalisingly tight pink crop-top. His fur coat is draped over his designer shoes and there are papers scattered all over the floor.

Tony comes to sit beside him. “What happened, princess?”

“I just told you,” Peter whines, reaching for the empty tub of Vegan Limited Edition Chocolate and Ambrosial Iranian Saffron ice cream, studded with what looks like gold flakes. Tony’s sure he can see _ Peter B _on the packaging. However, it’s empty, and Peter glares at the tub offendingly. 

“Here,” he offers, holding out the box of chocolate hearts.

Peter gasps, face lighting up, and he reaches for it greedily. “I _ love _you,” he declares emphatically, popping open the lid and immediately reaching for a pink one. It cracks appealingly against his teeth, letting the nutella filling spill into his mouth.

Tony wants to say _ I love you too, _but he knows Peter doesn’t mean it. He tries not to let it cut deep. He reaches forward to wipe some ice cream from Peter’s cheek. “Did something happen in class?”

The omega’s already reaching for another chocolate heart, and Tony pulls the box back. Peter gives him a look of pure sorrow. “Please, Tony,” he begs, chocolate on his teeth, “my life is over so I might as well be _ obese.” _

“What happened?” He insists through his smile, and Peter sighs.

“Mr Henderson gave me a B+ for my Greek History module.”

Tony frowns. “But you never get less than an A.”

“Tell me about it,” Peter sniffles, reaching for another heart. “He just doesn’t like me, I know it. I went to Mrs Adams about it and she read my essay and said it deserved an A+ so obviously I tried to get Henderson fired but he has tenure and the dean said they couldn’t keep firing professors because of me and now I have a _ B!” _He tears into the heart ravenously, and Tony hums thoughtfully. 

He turns to all the papers scattered around and starts compiling them neatly. He recognises Peter’s Battle of Marathon paper, and he knows it was worth higher than a B+. Peter had worked insanely hard on it.

“Why doesn’t Henderson like you?”

“I don’t know!” Peter exclaims, collapsing back into a heap on his fluffy rug. “Who _ doesn’t _like me? I am a delight!”

Tony grins, reaching out to squeeze Peter’s slim thigh. “I’ll sort it for you.”

Twin circles of honey peek at him dubiously. “...How?”

“I’ll just talk to him. I’m real persuasive.”

Peter scoffs, turning away. “I already tried talking to him.”

“I’m imagining that conversation went about as well as your conversations with baristas go.”

Peter glares.

Tony hands him another chocolate heart. “Don’t worry, gorgeous, I’ve got this one.”

The omega’s shoulders slump in acceptance, and he looks around his closet balefully. “I think I need to do some shopping. Recover from this trauma.” Tony watches as Peter licks the painted edible green off the chocolate and the alpha gets momentarily distracted before his brain kicks back into gear.

He nods, shuffling to lie beside Peter and stare up at the beautifully painted ceiling. There are endless blue clouds rendered artistically all across the paint, slipping into a sunrise on one side, and a sunset on the other. “Sounds good,”

“We should shop together.” Peter muses, twining their fingers together, smearing chocolate onto Tony’s palm. “If you let me dress you…”

“Fine by me,” Tony agrees around a yawn, only to wince at Peter’s excited little squeal. 

“Oh my god, _ really? _ I thought you’d be so against it! I have a whole wishlist of clothes you would look _ divine _in, and we could get our pictures taken and-”

It’s not quite takeout in bed, but lying with Peter snuggled between his legs on the floor of a ridiculous closet, eating expensive chocolate and perusing clothing websites is a very close second. It’s hard for it not to go to his head. Peter wants them to _ match. _ Peter peruses clothing sites and saves stuff he thinks Tony will look good in. Peter calls _ him _when he’s sad. 

Eventually, they migrate to the bed, and Peter cuddles into his chest. Tony breathes him in. He smells of chocolate. “Make it better,” the boy pouts, looking up at Tony like he trusts him. Like he _ believes _Tony really can fix it.

Tony can. He will. Peter might not be in love with him- might not adore him the way Tony adores _ Peter, _but there is something there. Something between them. Something Peter maybe doesn’t like to talk about it, but it’s there. 

They’ll have to talk about it sometime, the _ feelings, _but Peter keeps insisting it’s just sex- that they’re not even friends, but- more and more lately, Tony’s starting to think it’s all just bravado. 

So he kisses Peter gently, licks into his mouth and snakes a hand into his underwear, feels Peter’s little cock twitch against his palm. “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he promises, catching all of Peter’s quiet moans in his mouth. “I’ll make it better, I promise.”

The omega nods, panting, hips bucking helplessly. 

Tony likes it when Peter’s feisty, when he fights him for control, but there’s no doubting the appeal of _ this. _Of the gorgeous boy squirming, face flushed red with desperation. “Fuck my hand, princess,” he purrs into the shell of Peter’s ear, grinning at the whimper he gets in response, Peter’s hips snapping faster. Tony loosens his fist a little, just to hear it again. 

“No teasing,” Peter sniffles, nipping at Tony’s jaw in punishment. “You said you’d make it better.”

Tony chuckles warmly, before removing his hand completely, and twisting so he’s hovering over his boy, before shuffling down the bed. 

“I did say that. And I _ will.” _

Peter’s rewardingly loud when Tony gets his mouth on him, and he almost wishes the walls weren’t soundproof, because he wants everyone in the world to know how good he can make Peter Parker feel. 

Once they’re both sated, Tony eyes his clothes in the corner of the room. Looks at the cold darkness of outside and thinks of the long walk back.

“Stay, doofus,” Peter orders sleepily, and Tony smiles, and wraps the boy up in his arms. 

Yeah, he thinks warmly, it’s just bravado. 

* * *

Come to the party, Loki had said. It’ll be fun, he’d said.

Loki was a dear friend of his but it was undeniable his talent with weaving words into things that seemingly make sense at the of being spoken. Like, _ Peter, you just finished midterms, you deserve a break _ . _ Don’t you want to show off that McQueen coat you just bought? _

Yes, he did. Is he regretting it now? Absolutely. 

Honestly, he should have just stayed home and watched reruns of Paris fashion week. Watching Elie Saab and Zuhair Murad dominate the runway seemed much a better alternative than drinking cheap beer and cringing at the smell of weed as it weaves under his nose. What party even was this and how fried was he to agree to come?

Of course Loki had abandoned him within minutes of arriving, spotting Thor and flocking to him like a moth to a flame, all saltry stalk through the crowd of people. Betty abandoned him too, then Natasha, both in pursuit of food, alcohol, companionship, whatever. It meant he suddenly found himself alone in an ever-swelling crowd of sweaty party-goers and leering alphas, men and women alike. It had been less than a week since he and Tony had exchanged scents, long enough for any unbonded omega to seem ripe for the picking.

Not that he and Tony were bonded, of course.

God, all of this was_ so boring _ . Like who even listens to this garbage music? Is he supposed to be interested in gyrating upon his inebriated peers whilst periodically checking his drink for GHB? _ God _.

He fishes out his phone from his purse, furiously texting Tony to ascertain his whereabouts. Maybe he could crash at TPS and watch David Attenborough with the alpha or take selfies in bed, honestly he wasn’t bothered either way. 

**>> Out n about, gorgeous. You should come n join?**

An audible scoff escapes his lips as the imagines what the alpha has gotten himself up to. If last Halloween was any indication, it involved a plentiful volume of toilet paper and pumpkin innards and he was not having any of that. Beta-carotene _ stains _. Pass. 

He delivers a flippant reply to Tony’s offer, wondering as he pockets his phone if he should go over there in any case. Maybe slip into the alphas bed while he’s out, play with DUM-E for a while, give the poor thing a bit of attention. Maybe he could tidy it up a little bit, that’s a nice thing to do for someone you potentially want to woo, right? It’s what nice people do, he’s sure of it. Really, he could probably rearrange Tony’s entire bedroom without him noticing, organise his haphazard book collection, steal a shirt or two - 

Anyway.

With that in mind he tries to flag down one of his friends, cringing as he weaves through the crowd of drunken students, narrowly missing getting beer spilled down his front by an apologetic, unbalanced beta. Feet aching in his Louis Vuitton he wanders from room to room in search of a familiar face, dry heaving when one room reveals a startled couple bent over the foot of a bed, pants pooled around their ankles. He meets their gaze and shakes his head.

“Self respect,” Peter tuts, “you should get some.” 

Slamming the door on the surprised couple he continues onwards, nose held-high, elbowing handsy alphas as he stalks the hall and circles back into the main area. The crowd pulses and he needs to stand on his toes in order to see above the crowd.

It’s as he cranes his neck up that a familiar scent drifts by and catches his attention, even through the cloud of pungent body odor and smoke. All at once his pulse rises and without permission his mouth stretches into a smile. 

Sniffing delicately, Peter follows the scent to the far end of the room, the swathe of bodies parting for him like a knife through warm butter, revealing Tony who - 

Who is dancing with someone else.

A blonde, beta female has her hands planted firmly on Tony’s hips, Tony’s hands on hers, no more than a couple of inches separating their dancing bodies. Hips sway in perfect beat to the rhythm, faces inches apart as both sing along to whatever terrible top forty track is blasting through the nearby speaker, unbridled delight in Tony’s eyes as he loses himself to music.

The sight makes his heart trip over itself.

As loud as the music is, it’s evidently not enough to muffle his quiet inhale because Tony’s head snaps towards him, a grin lighting up his face when their eyes meet.

Very, very calmly, Peter turns on his foot and walks out of the room. Hands clench into fists at his sides as blood begins echoing in his ears, the bass of it louder than any music. 

Ignoring the calls to his name, he hastens his footsteps into the hall, stopping only as he struggles to fish his phone out his handbag. He leans against the nearest wall and does precisely what he should have done in the beginning. With quick, practiced fingers he texts his friends to tell them he’s leaving.

“Hey, shortstack,” Tony appears at his side, just as Peter slides his phone away. Looking up, Tony is still still smiling, eyes bright in what Peter might have once called genuine delight to see him. Peter mentally berates himself for ever having been so utterly thoughtless. 

“Didn’t know you were here. Come back in, dance with me.”

Setting his jaw, Peter shakes his head, adjusting the strap of his handbag.

“No, that’s okay. I can see you already have that covered.” 

Tony cocks his head to the side, laughing a little.. “Okay? What’s that mean --”

Not interested in hearing the rest, Peter turns and heads towards the door, resisting the urge to rub at his chest to soothe the sudden throbbing. He doesn’t get very far before the alpha catches up with him, running in front of him to block his way, hands held out to the side.

“Are you -” Tony tries, confusion written all over his face. “Are you mad or something?”

Peter blinks, offering the alpha a look of flat disinterest, attempting to maintain his composure. He shifts to the side to try and walk around him however is brought to a sudden when Tony mirrors his movements.

“I’m not mad. What would I possibly have to be mad about?”

“I don’t know,” Tony answers slowly. “The shade of the sky clashing with your outfit on any given day? I can see you’re pissed at something. C’mon, baby, talk to me.”

His attempts to side-step the alpha are again frustratingly parried and for a moment has visions of kneeing the guy in the balls like a common brute. The glare he sends Tony instead is so withering that even the alphas behind him shrink against the walls.

“I’d rather go home, if you could please move. As soon as I’m out that door you can continue doing whatever - or whoever.” 

Tony’s jaw drops, brow creasing. “Doing - what are you _ talking _about?”

“Don’t play dumb, Anthony, I’m better at it than you,” he seethes, gesturing back to the thick of the party. “Isn’t Walmart Barbie waiting for you back there?”

“_Who _?”

“Yea high,” Peter demonstrates with his hand, “short skirt, bad extensions? Jesus, Tony, it’s been all of two minutes.”

This time when he tries to get past Tony grabs his upper arm, pulling him away from the crowd that have begun forming around them, hushed whispers audible over the beat of the music. Outrage wells in his throat and, despite protesting loudly, Tony pulls him roughly into a nearby room, blissfully quiet and free of occupants.

The door closes quietly behind them, the room in darkness save for the glow of the dull orange street lamps casting shadows upon the two.

“Is _ that _what this is about? You’re pissy because I was dancing with someone?”

Peter pulls away from his grasp, crossing to the other corner of the room, willing his racing heartbeat to come back down and the colour to return to his face. He tries to think of something to say, but the words get tangled in his throat, all sharp edges. Out of the corner of his eye Tony edges closer, shaking his head. 

“It’s not - “

“It is,” Tony interrupts. “So, what - am I not allowed to dance with other people now?”

“You can dance with whoever you like, I’m not your keeper,” Peter says down to his hands, surveying his manicure with exaggerated interest. “I mean, I’m not exactly sure _ why _you’d want to dance with trash like that but birds of a feather, I guess.”

Tony shakes his head, scoffing. “Well, I extend my deepest apologies that not everybody lives up to your impossible standards, princess. If you’re jealous you should have just said so.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Peter says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Contrary to what you might believe, you’re not God’s gift and I’m _ not _jealous. You can do whatever you want. I don’t care.”

“You don’t care,” Tony repeats, dubious. “And that’s why we’re having this conversation right now. Because you don’t care.”

“About you? Not a single bit.”

Tony stares at him for a beat too long, scrubbing at his chin with his hand. “You know what, Parker? I call bullshit.”

Peter rolls his eyes, opening his mouth to rebuke before he gets cut off as Tony continues. The alpha steps forward slowly, hips swaying dangerously as he approaches Peter.

“I think you care a lot. I think you saw me dancing in there and now you’re all pissed off, it’s not exactly a complicated equation - I think you might actually _ like _ me.”

“I think you’re an idiot,” Peter retorts.

“Maybe,” Tony considers, tilting his head. “Still. I think you like me more than you’re willing to admit, though.”

“How many times do I have to tell you --”

“Cut the crap, Peter, come on,” Tony interrupts. “I like you. It’s that easy to admit, even if you’re fucking _ impossible _\- we might actually have something and it scares the crap out of you, doesn’t it?”

“Tony, the only thing that scares me about you is the size of your ego,” Peter rolls his eyes, stepping back to get some space. The feeling of walls closing in on him makes his chest go tight, so he closes his eyes and makes a token attempt at breathing before speaking again. “We spent one heat together, okay? It’s not that profound.”

“If it was just one heat then why are you so mad?”

“Maybe because you throw yourself at anything with a pulse!” Peter snaps finally, rubbing at the ache in his chest. “It’s not like _ I’ve _ been dancing with anyone else or --” he cuts off that sentence immediately, because it all it does is make Tony throw him a triumphant look. He changes tact rapidly: “The only thing we ‘had’ was an agreement, Anthony. If you think for one minute I would _ willingly _associate with you outside of a notarized contract then you’re delusional. You’re clearly very keen to prove the one thing you’re good for, so don’t let me stop you.”

The silence that follows is deafening. 

“What I’m good for,” Tony echoes a moment after, laughing lowly to himself. “Wow, _ Peter Parker _, everybody. You know, it’s incredible - every time I start to believe you’re more than the soulless, vapid air-head everyone thinks you are, you go out of your way to prove me wrong.”

“Guess we’re on the same page then,” Peter bites back. When his eyes start to sting he wraps his coat further around his body. All it took for Peter to be hooked was a charming smile and a nice scent, line and sinker. For one moment he thought he might actually be special, that maybe Tony wasn’t - that he was - 

God Peter is so, so _ stupid _.

His eyes go hot with unshed tears when Tony takes a step back, face stony. 

“Y’know,” Tony begins quietly, “when you said we weren’t together I thought you were just playing coy, like, hard to get - but you’re as cold as stone, aren’t you?”

The words feel like a quiet shot in the dark, ripping through his chest. The walls crack and finally crumble.

“Yep, that’s me,” Peter mutters, wiping furiously at his cheek when a tear slips out. “Guess we both dodged a bullet there, didn’t we? You can go back to your meathead friends and tell them all about how got your dick wet with that ‘airhead’, but I’m sure you’ve already done that. Bet you all sat there and laughed about how I was begging for it, huh?”

The phrasing brings back what Tony had said before, how he was so blasè about the crux of Peter’s heat. It’s Peter’s fault - he really should have known that his submission was the joke all along.

Two more tears drop in quick succession down his cheek without his permission. Then, to his shame, a loud sniffle as he tries to swallow more tears down, his throat is stuck and - it’s so _ humiliating _.

“Hey --”

“Thank you for your services. Don’t worry, I won’t be contacting you for them ever again,” he continues over him, tears blurring his vision as he makes for the door in search of a bathroom to break down in. 

Before he reaches it his wrist is seized, Tony's hand hot like a brand on his skin.

“You’re crying again,” Tony says as Peter turns to glare at him, squaring his jaw. He tugs indignantly at the grip but the alpha doesn’t release him.

“Very astute observation, Einstein. Let me go.” 

“Why are you upset?”

“Are you getting off on this or something?” he asks incredulously, backing up until his back meets the door. “You’re such an asshole, get _ off _ me.”

“I’ve only ever seen you cry _ once, _ Pete.” Tony insists, unrelenting. Stubborn to the _ core. _ “One time. God knows I’ve seen you throw a thousand hissy fits, a million and one tantrums, but I’ve only ever seen you cry once. _ Twice, _now.”

Peter glares at him with all the hatred he can muster. “Keeping count?” He sneers. He’s burning all over. Cheeks flushed with humiliation, tears hot with anger, and he struggles to keep it all together. _ Cold as stone. _He wishes.

A muscle in the alpha’s jaw clenches, and his eyes are furiously dark. “Would you _ listen _ to me for one fuckin’ second, Peter?” He demands, voice commanding authority. “You cried when I- when I fucked up and made those jokes. You’re crying now because you’re…” he shakes his head, “you’re _ hurt.” _

“I am not hurt!” Peter snaps, yanking his hand hard out of Tony’s grip. It twists the skin a little and he tries to hide his wince, cradling his hand to his chest. He can hear the thrum of the music downstairs. He can hear people laughing. “I don’t care what you think of me, I don’t care what anyone thinks of me-”

“I think the world of you!” Tony yells back, chest heaving. “All I’m trying to do is tell you that I care about you. That I know you care about me, but you just _ won’t _admit it to yourself. You keep lashing out at me, Peter, I…” he drags his fingers through his hair, “if you think I’m some sort of playboy, then-”

“You _ are.” _

As soon as he says the words, Peter wishes he could grab them all back. He hates the way Tony flinches, the way his face shutters off into an expression closed and cool. An expression Peter’s seen in the mirror one too many times. 

What’s wrong with him? 

He swallows hard, watching as Tony crosses the room to the window, where he stands still and silent. A silhouette in the amber hue, hiding his face. 

In that moment he wants to just turn and leave. Slip out of the door, go to the bathroom and fix the mess that his face must be, rejoin the party and just imagine none of this has happened. It would be easier to just pick up where he left off, tell himself that this means nothing. That Tony means nothing to him. Pretend that he never- never-

The image comes, unbidden, of Tony streaked with soot and ash from his explosion last week. The feeling of worry and fear that had almost choked Peter returns.

“You’re wrong,” he whispers, more to himself than to Tony. 

The alpha doesn’t move. Doesn’t even look at him.

Peter takes a shaky step forward. He doesn’t feel confident and sexy like he did when he first walked in. In his white strappy heels and fur coat. He feels small and vulnerable and - “I don’t _ like _you.”

He can hear the sharp intake of Tony’s breath, but still, the alpha doesn’t speak. Peter hangs his head down, curls toppling into his forehead, and he desperately wants to hide behind them. For a terrified moment he forgets how to speak, how to say what he means without his confident demeanour doing all the talking for him. 

The words, as he forces them out, are soaked with feeling. It goes against all his instincts, but he knows he- he _ has _to. 

“Remember when you nearly blew yourself up?”

He can hear Tony shuffle a little, but Peter doesn’t look up to see if he’s watching. 

Instead, he stares at his hands as they tremble. “I was so scared something would- that you’d hurt yourself or something, because you have like, no self-preservation instincts, and I just thought -” his throat feels clogged, “what if something happened to you? And you were- I just- and I was so angry, but not at- not at _ you, _ but because I…” He closes his eyes, summoning all his bravery. “Because you’re so smart, and you understand circuit boards the same way Marcel Tolkhowsky understands _ gems, _ and people who are that brilliant are notoriously bad at looking after themselves, and-and- what do you do when someone you love is just going to- to keep trying to break the laws of physics on an empty stomach? Or won’t wipe the grease stains off their cheeks so they get _ breakouts _and-”

He jumps when warm fingers tilt his chin up, and when he opens his eyes, suddenly, Tony is right there, eyes glittering the warmest brown. “Someone you love?” He whispers, and Peter blinks the tears across his lashes, casting rainbows across his vision. 

“I was only…” the denial dies on his tongue, the reflex giving way to honesty. “I…”

“Yeah,” Tony murmurs, pulling Peter in for a hug. His embrace is warm and solid and safe, and Peter sinks into it. He gets a kiss on the head for his bravery, and a quiet confession: “Me too.”

“Oh,” Peter mumbles, unable to help his smile as it spread across his face. He hides it by burying his cheek into Tony’s chest. The t-shirt is rough and scratchy, but Peter doesn’t even mind. 

“And you’re not some- not some airhead, I didn’t- I didn’t mean that, you’re- you’re scary smart, honestly, and- when you were with DUM-E I...I just, I _ knew. _And-”

“I know,” Peter sighs, contentment in every bone, sagging against the alpha’s hold. “I _ was _ jealous. I saw her pressed against you and I just - I wanted to believe the worst. It’s easier than…”

“I know,” Tony says, rubbing his back, stitching Peter back together with the gentle movements. “You’re a hot mess, princess - you know that, right?”

Peter nods, shrugging slightly.

“You know that’s why I love you, right?” Tony sighs. “She doesn’t mean anything, I want _ you _.” 

The last admission eases some of the scalding shame still sitting in his sternum. Peter noses up to Tony’s collar, just breathing over the skin at the base of his throat. The floodgates are already open, he’s laid bare more than he has to anyone before, what’s the point in holding more back?

“I hate that they don’t know you’re mine,” Peter grumbles, kissing Tony’s throat, drawing skin into his mouth to suck in self-comfort. The alpha's answering rumble encourages him to gnaw at it lightly, all sweat and musk. “I hate that you smell like _ them _.”

“Yeah? You want them to know I’m yours, baby?” Tony whispers, arms going tight around Peter’s frame. “That you’re mine too?”

He nods, biting down on the skin harder, the alphas hand coming up to cup the back of his head. The grooves of the door dig painfully into his back when Tony presses him firmly against it, not an inch between them, a thigh pushed between his legs for him to rut against. Tony pulls his hair, tilting his head back just enough to whisper in his ear. 

“Then let’s show them.”

* * *

Tony bounds down the stairs of the fraternity two at a time, screeching to a halt to check himself out in the mirror just before he heads out into the wintry morning. He’s pretty sure the outfit is Peter approved- Ralph Lauren black tee, stretched over the muscles of his chest with a leather jacket over the top. His jeans are just off the high street, but hopefully Peter won’t mind.

He checks his hair again- before catching himself. _ What is he doing? _ He’s the sexiest alpha on campus- he’s excruciatingly attractive, with dark hark and dark eyes, and perfectly unblemished tanned skin- and Peter _ does _ find him attractive, though the omega is loathe to admit it outside of his heat.

Tony turns from the mirror with restored confidence, and steps out onto the front porch with his usual swagger.

Peter is waiting for him out in the front yard, watching as Clint and Steve do their morning workouts; the alphas are grunting loudly. Tony would feel jealous, if not for the fact that Peter turns towards the sound of the closing door eagerly, and positively beams at the sight of him.

Tony jogs over, drinking in the sight of Peter greedily. A little thrill goes through him at the sight of Peter in a deep burgundy leather jacket with an imprinted _ dolce&gabbanna _ label on the sleeves (they’re _ matching _ ), and Peter’s also wearing red knee high boots, and an oversized sweater cinched in at the waist with an embossed _ Prada _ belt. It takes Tony a second to recognise the deep grey of the sweater, but as he gets closer, he can _ smell _that it’s his. 

Fuck. Will seeing Peter ever _ not _make him hard?

He slips an arm under Peter’s jacket, around his waist, feeling his own sweater settled on that skin and relishes in the fact that he doesn’t have to resist the urge to kiss Peter’s temple. He can be as domestic as he likes, as he pecks his boyfriend’s head. “Morning, princess,”

“It took you long enough,” Peter says by way of greeting, his eyelids shadowed in dusty pink, but leaning into Tony’s side anyway. Tony waves goodbye to his friends, barely glancing at them as they wolf-whistle, as he and Peter begin the walk to class. “I was standing out here just _ waiting _for you, like a common taxi!”

“Fuckin’ travesty is what it is,” Tony murmurs fondly, winking at a gold-fish mouthed freshman who stares at the two of them from across the road. 

“Yes.” Peter agrees, happy that Tony’s on his side. “Exactly. I want us to be able to get good seats. Advanced inorganic chemistry is tricky, I need to be able to ask questions.”

“Just ask me,” Tony shrugs, “I always understand everything. I’m a bit of a genius.”

“_Boor.” _Peter huffs, but he’s smiling. “And I like the leather. J’approve.” 

“And you look good enough to eat,” Tony purrs into his ear. 

Peter shivers, before snapping his fingers. “That reminds me! The bistro this morning completely butchered my poached eggs and avocado toast! The _ heathens. _I could hardly eat it. I actually had to buy myself a snack.” He reaches into his Hermes backpack, and pulls out some chocolate. Tony watches him eat the long, pink fingers of the cherry kitkat and thinks about biting on those red lips, before chuckling. 

“Do you even like that version? Or is it just for the aesthetic?”

“Sweet, simple, Anthony,” Peter sighs, “can’t it be both?” He reaches up to pat the alpha on the cheek patronisingly, and Tony laughs loudly. 

“I guess. I’ll buy you lunch after the lecture. How’s that?” He appeases. Peter nods happily, and Tony curls his arm around the omega’s waist a little tighter.

Tony thinks he and Peter have more in common than just a shared love of books and fantastic sex, because he too really rather likes being _ looked at. _

And goddamn, are they getting looks.

He can’t wipe the smirk off his face as they saunter into the lecture hall and everything screeches to a literal halt. Silence sweeps the seated students and even the professor trips on his way to the podium, nearly losing the grip on his presentation notes. 

Tony can read the look on his face. It says _ oh shit, those two shits are together. _

They are together, but they’re not _ shits. _Tony can be an arrogant asshole, but only because he’s always right, and Peter’s a matter-of-fact, slightly pretentious, utterly self-righteous teacher’s pet.

Peter tosses his head so all his curls bounce like little waves, and he preens under the attention, swaying his hips as he goes to take a seat at the front. Tony grins, sliding in after him and watching the professor hastily gather their notes. 

Immediately, hushed murmuring starts.

It’s like the sweetest music. Tony listens to it as Peter meticulously sets out his notebook and his fluffy, glittery pens and his graphics calculator. Tony doesn’t have his laptop with him, but he doesn’t need to take notes anyway. He slings his arm across the back of the seats, not _ quite _around Peter’s shoulders, but staking his claim nonetheless. 

“Caveman,” Peter mutters under his breath, but he leans into the crook of Tony’s elbow anyway. Then he wrinkles his nose. “What _ cologne _is that?”

“It’s lynx deodorant.”

Peter makes a face like he’s dying and Tony laughs so loudly that the professor gives him a look. Tony can only lift his eyebrows in a ‘_ what you gonna do?’ _motion, and the professor rolls their eyes. 

Tony has a bit of a knack for chemistry, so he’s content to let most of the lesson pass him by. He dips in and out of listening, but his mind is on other things. New updates for DUM-E, maybe switching the topic of his coursework in engineering for something a little more advanced. He thinks about the last game against Lincoln- the last one of the season- and how Bruce will do out on the field. 

When he zones back in from the far more interesting routes his mind has taken him, the professor is still droning on, and Peter is still hurriedly taking notes. The feathers on his pen shiver with the speed and Tony watches as swathes of that elegant cursive appears in the notebook. Where did he even learn to write like that? Tony thinks fondly, letting his fingers playfully tug at Peter’s hair as it curls at the nape of his neck. 

Peter glances at him distractedly, before nodding. 

Tony frowns, before-

“As I was saying, you can work in pairs or groups of four, but everyone’s going to have to do their part…”

Oh. _ Oh. _ Well, that’s nice. They’ll be one of those couples, then. The ones who do assignments together and present in front of the class with coy little smiles and inside jokes. Tony can work with that. Peter is smart and capable and Tony can’t wait to show off a little bit. Because Peter is intelligent, but inorganic chemistry? Ha, that’s _ Tony’s _domain, and it’ll nice not to be one-upped as the fool for once.

Obviously, he’s very easily distracted. Distracted by things like- how pink Peter’s lips are, or how he’s got freckles dappled over his nose and cheeks, or how every single curl on his head looks absolutely perfect, like something out of a magazine-

“I’ve submitted our project title.” Peter informs winningly, striding back to their seats and beginning to pack up his things.

Tony blinks, before looking around to see that everyone is filing out. “Wait- what-”

“I’ve chosen for us to focus on organometallic chemistry and some ligand bonds. I would have asked your opinion but you were too busy drooling over me and also I didn’t really care what you thought.”

“I was _ not _ drooling _ .” _Tony splutters, only mildly horrified, as Peter loops his arms through his backpack and looks at him expectantly.

“I thought you were treating me to lunch?” Peter prompts, a coy little smile on his lips and faux-innocence barely masking the victory in his honey brown eyes.

Tony narrows his eyes at him and pretends to pout. “Why bother? You don’t care what I think, so-”

“Don’t be a baby,” Peter warns, “that’s _ my _role. Now come on.” He stamps one dainty foot a little impatiently. “I’m hungry! I didn’t get breakfast, remember?”

He does remember, and as much as he’d like to treat his boyfriend to a nice lunch, he has a point to prove. He stays seated, a bored expression on his face.

It takes about two minutes for Peter to groan. “_ Fine! _You can choose the type of bonds we look at.”

“I’ll take it,” Tony quips, jumping up and ruffling Peter’s hair just to hear the irritated squeak. “I’ll pick ligand bonds.”

“But that’s what _ I _picked-”

“No, no, sweet thing,” Tony corrects condescendingly, “_ I’m _allowed to pick the bonds, and I chose ligands.”

“But I picked ligands!”

“If that’s what you need to say to help you sleep at night.”

“I hate you.” Peter grumbles, even as he reaches forward to twine their fingers together.

“Love you too, doll,”

* * *

Patience is a virtue, a virtue Peter does not possess. 

He’s stretched his to the very limit, and he can’t wait any longer. For a genius, for a visionary, Tony is so _ dense. _

He sighs, brushing down his sapphire mini-skirt and making sure to smile and push his shoulders back so the _ KKT _ bejewelled across his white tee sparkles at every passer by. The second group of pledges should be coming up after Christmas, and Peter wants everyone to remember that there’s only _ one _sorority worth anything, and he’s definitely going to be its president next year. 

He winks at a few alphas, blows kisses to some betas, just relishes in the attention, but he has a mission, and that mission involves his utterly _ dense _boyfriend.

The door to the fraternity swings open before Peter can raise his hand to knock, Steve stops short at the sight of him, clearly on his way out.

He pauses and grins at Peter. “Well, well, well, you look good enough to _ eat. _Tony’s a lucky guy.”

Peter rolls his eyes, lifting his nose. “Why don’t you take a bite? _ Promise _I’m not too venomous.”

Steve snorts, stepping out of the way politely. Peter wants to appreciate the courtesy, except Steve’s eyeing the hem of Peter’s skirt, so he makes sure to crush the alpha’s toes with the heel of his Jimmy Choo’s, delighting in Steve’s howl of pain as he skips up the stairs. 

Tony’s door is open, and he looks up in surprise when Peter steps in. “Hey, baby,” he grins, streaked with motor oil, “is Steve okay? I swear I heard-”

Peter kisses him, then pulls back and _ glares. _

Tony chuckles, wiping his hand on a dirty rag, this place is so _ gross, _and looks up. “You’re giving me mixed signals, gorgeous. What are you doing here?” His voice turns into a drawl, “not that I don’t appreciate the visit…” his eyes dip down to Peter’s skirt, and unlike with Steve, Peter bites his bottom lip, and spreads his legs a little.

Tony reaches out to touch, and Peter slaps his hand away. 

“Don’t you want to ask me something, Anthony?” He demands.

The alpha blinks up at him in surprise. He’s stupidly handsome, even though he clearly hasn’t showered today. Peter wants to push him in the shower- wash away all the dirt, and then maybe, under the heat of the spray engage in more...exciting activities. “Uh…”

He has no more patience. Instead, he unzips his bag and pulls out the McFlurry he bought on the way over. _ McDonalds is so gross. _ But he’d received a number of dropped-jaws upon entry, so he’s not _ too _ mad about it. He sets it down hard on Tony’s desk and the alpha’s face lights up. “This is for getting me that A in Henderson’s class.” Peter announces, before reaching out and setting down a pack of new charging ports. “And these are for your robotics class.” And then he goes and drapes himself across Tony’s bed, sighing _ loudly. _

He can hear the screech of wheels on Tony’s chair as the alpha pushes himself towards him. Warm hands touch his bare knees, and Peter covers his face with his arm, sighing again. 

“I’m missing something,” Tony murmurs, hands soothing as they rub up Peter’s thighs. “You’re gonna have to give me a hint though, beautiful.”

_ Baby. Gorgeous. Beautiful. _ They make Peter blush. And blushing ruins perfectly good rouge. But he doesn’t have the heart to say _ don’t call me that, _ especially because he likes hearing it. And it’s not like Tony’s lying. He _ is _ gorgeous. “Winter formal is coming up and I know we already agreed and I got you fitted for the tux but-but you haven’t even _ asked _me!” He whines, barely resisting the urge to stamp his feet and pout. 

There’s a pause, and then a laugh. It’s not a mean laugh, though, it’s surprised and relieved. Peter peeks out through his elbow and sees Tony looks at him, mouth twisted into something fond. “Peter Parker, I would be _ fucking honoured _if you let me escort you to Winter Formal next week. Please? Give a meat-head alpha something to live for.”

Peter can’t help his smile, so he hides his face and mutters: “_ Jerk.” _

He shives though, when he feels Tony’s lips drag across his knees. There’s a thump, and the roll of the chair, before he goes red hot all over, Tony’s mouth making it’s way up Peter’s thighs. When he looks down, sure enough, the alpha has his head between Peter’s legs, slowly making its way up to his skirt. 

It’s so erotic a sight, that Peter feels himself get a little wet.

“Wait,” Tony hums, pulling back, and Peter gasps for breath, closing his eyes in mild frustration. “The McFlurry was for the grade, but- what are the charging ports for?”

Peter frowns. “Your robotics class, _ moron.” _

“Yeah, I got that,” Tony laughs, eyes alight with merriment, “but I mean, why did you buy them for me?”

Peter’s eyebrows pull together in confusion. _ What? _ “Are you drunk? You said you needed them.” Honestly, for a _ genius- _

“Yeah,” Tony whispers, lowering his head to kiss Peter’s thighs. “I _ love _you, you know that, shortstack?”

Peter’s about to protest to _ that _nickname (he’s not short, he’s actually above average height for an omega) when Tony’s head disappears beneath his skirt, and all he can do is clutch the bedsheets and buck his hips and moan his boyfriend’s name.

* * *

When Tony walks into the Grand Hall, _ Froot _by Marina is playing and fake snow is falling, covering the ground with its papery confetti. People are dancing and the white and blue strobe lights sweep across the venue; illuminating shining dresses and the huge crystal sculpture of the College’s founder. He feels like he’s stepped into a Christmas Fairy land.

Tony reaches for a glass of champagne and brings it to his lips, eyes peeled. 

Peter’s on the committee for this thing (no wonder it’s so tastefully done) so they’ve agreed to meet here, but Tony can’t see him through the crowd of people. 

The problem with Winter Formal, of course, is that it’s rather _ formal. _It’s not like the balls and dances they have throughout the year, this is more elite and pretentious, and that’s why there are ball gowns and tuxedos. It’s why Tony looks particularly dapper in his Armani suit. His bowtie is purposely a little crooked because he knows Peter won’t be able to resist straightening it. He’s clean shaven and he knows he looks like he walked straight off a runaway. 

All the omegas, and a few alphas, are eyeing him like he’s something very tasty indeed.

Tony winks, and feels sorry for them. Poor things, they don’t know he’s taken. 

But back to _ formality. _It means the older figures, the ones lurking on the fringes of a good time, steeped in money and awkwardness, are the parents. 

Tony hadn’t invited his, and yet somehow-

“Tony, darling!” His mother beams, cupping his face in her warm hands and kissing his forehead. “You look so handsome! Doesn’t he look handsome, Howard?”

His dad doesn’t say anything, just looks disapprovingly at the champagne flute in Tony’s hand. Tony meets his eyes and takes a long sip. Howard clears his throat. “So, where’s this omega you’ve been telling your mother about? I hope for your sake it’s not another vapid airhead.”

Tony’s grip on the stem of his glass tightens, even as he leans marginally into his mother’s loving embrace. “He’s around here somewhere. He was on the committee for planning this whole thing.”

“Oh how lovely,” Maria gasps, and Howard frowns and looks around a little more critically. His mom’s in a deep green dress, and his father’s in a business suit that says that he didn’t have time to change after work. “I can’t wait to meet him, dear, I’m sure he’s lovely.”

Tony smiles at his mom, even as he prickles all over. He looks up, and sure enough, in a ray of white strobe light, Peter appears.

_ Jesus Christ. _Forget biochemistry, Peter should be a model. For artists. Should be immortalised in paintings and sculptures, in photography for everyone to stare at. He’s in the Siriano Sprin Cape Dress he’s been so excited to wear, and only now can Tony see what all the fuss was about. 

His mouth waters. Peter saunters over, a smile on his lips, as the cape of the dress flutters around his shoulders. He looks like _ royalty. _He’s always beautiful, but he truly shines here, under the lights and the attention, at an event he’s planned, the star of the show. The dress cuts off midway down his thigh, and his legs are elongated by the ruby heels on his feet. The dress is adorned with garnet petals, the cape shimmering fluidly, like liquid scarlet. The flowers are embroidered into the skin-coloured bodice; shades of cherry and garnet sewn into the lace, the edges unfurling with little diamond strokes. 

As Peter comes closer, Tony can see the white pearls around his neck and on his ears. Can see the sweep of gold against his cheeks, and the shades of rosewood in his hair. 

Howard lets out a little gasp that’s all too audible, and Maria looks excited. 

Tony puffs out his chest in pride.

“Anthony,” Peter beams, hands reaching for Tony’s bowtie and straightening it. “You look very handsome.” His hands linger on Tony’s chest.

“Ditto.” Tony grins, and Peter rolls his eyes fondly, before turning to his parents. 

“Mr and Mrs Stark,” Peter beams, even as he slots himself demurely into Tony’s side. The omega offers out his hand, and Howard takes it with an enchanted look on his face. “I’m Peter Parker, I hope you’ve been offered a refreshment. I’ve made sure there are non-alcoholic options. I’m on the _ delicious _blood orange tea. Would you like some?”

Howard kisses the back of his Peter’s hand and looks utterly charmed. Tony wonders if his dad can smell the coconut body lotion the omega uses. Maria shakes his next.

“Tea sounds lovely,” she cooes, and Peter smiles at her, looking like an utter angel. He snaps his fingers, and a waiter appears almost instantly.

Tony tries to hide his smile as his dad nods approvingly. 

Once his dad has a scotch, and his mom is sipping at her tea, Tony presses a kiss to the tip of Peter’s ear. “You’ve outdone yourself, princess,” he murmurs, and Peter gives him a sultry look. 

“And you look even more incredible in that tux than I thought you would.” He teases, fingers stroking at Tony’s wrist. “If you dressed like that all the time, I’m not sure how I’d ever resist you…”

“Welcome to my world,” Tony laughs, before Howard clears his throat.

Tony rolls his eyes, but his father looks pleased. “Parker, is that after Parker Vineyards?” 

Debonair and sophisticated come to Peter naturally. He oozes a charisma that Tony’s father laps up. He’s not sure why he ever worried about this meeting now. “The very same,” Peter makes his voice sound a little surprised, “surely you don’t know it?”

Howard chuckles. “I’ve bought a couple of bottles myself.”

“That is an _honour.” _Peter simpers, his drawl only sarcastic for Tony’s nuanced ears, “I’ll have to tell my Aunt when I go home, she’ll be simply thrilled.”

“What do you study, Peter, darling?” Maria interjects, before Howard can offer his own, unnecessary advice on a wine business he knows nothing about. 

“Biochemistry,” Peter hums, his eyelashes so long they curl against his cheekbone when he blinks. “I’m not too sure what I want to do, but I know that if you work hard, you can achieve anything.”

“That’s the attitude to have,” Howard nods approvingly. “You’ve got a good one here, Anthony. Might actually learn a thing or two.”

“Your son is _ very _smart,” Peter interjects, his tone a little more biting. “He’s going to be the technological pioneer of our generation.”

Howard looks lost for words, and Tony wants to take a picture of this moment. Maria is completely endeared. 

Tony sips his champagne, and decides that this might be the best night of his life. 

* * *

Peter is in his moment, taking stock of months of hard work as it quite literally falls around him, the confetti getting caught in his hair, collecting upon the slope of his shoulders. The still packed room three hours into the festivities is the most satisfying indicator of his success, the dance floor still brimming with people.

His cheeks are flushed, pleasantly warm from the dancing and helpings of champagne, making small talk with professors and students alike. He’s received countless compliments on his attire, from gushing to downright envious, and been praised for his hand in the production of the formal - and has accepted them all with just a hint of modesty. Just a hint, because he worked damn hard to make this all happen, so what was the harm in soaking in a bit of praise? 

Most of the parents have politely left at this point, leaving a few slightly inebriated older couples draped over each other on the dance floor amongst the students and younger faculty staff who are still standing. Before the Starks had left Peter had gotten in a dance with both parents, Howard stiffly polite and Maria snorting into his shoulder as she stepped upon his toes. The latter carried the comforting scent that Omega mothers always did, however doused in artificial perfumes. Not even Coco herself could disguise it.

Not for the first time he wished May had the means to be here tonight, to meet Tony and give her hard-won approval. She’d been on business in Seoul, but the photos he'd sent her had been met with emphatic approval. She’d followed Tony’s social media the moment Peter had tagged him and gushed at his choices, provided him with tips and encouraged him never to settle. It was more fulfilling than half the praise he’d heard all night. 

Loki nudges his shoulder, staring out at the crowd whilst delicately cupping his own flute of champagne. 

“Good turnout,” he comments, eyeing a familiar blonde in the far corner. “Where’s your accessory?”

“Tony,” Peter corrects absently, ignoring his friends nonchalant shrug from the corner of his eye as he scans the room. “He wandered off a while ago. Probably pocketing the hors d'oeuvres in his tux. He likes the ones with bacon.”

“I still can’t believe you had bacon included on the menu,” Loki mutters. “My arteries are suffering just looking at it.”

Peter smiles fondly to himself.

“Speak of the devil,” Peter perks up, spotting the alpha near the entrance doors, his big brown eyes surveying the crowd. They light up as they spot Peter, hurrying over to him. 

As Tony gets closer Peter’s smile slowly morphs into a frown, the other scurrying towards Peter at an alarming speed, weaving through a startled crowd. 

There’s a pink flush over Tony’s cheeks and a wide grin stretching his lips as he stops before Peter, chest heaving with exertion. 

“Come,” Tony beckons, reaching to grip Peter’s wrist and tugging him to follow. “Quick, follow me.”

“What -” Peter utters, allowing himself to be pulled along. “Tony - what on earth are you doing?”

He deposits the champagne flute on a nearby table as they pass and grips onto Tony’s wrist for balance, barely managing to keep up with the alpha as he is pulled through the crowd of party-goers. They avoid collision as the crowd parts like the red sea, a few of them pointing their phone at the crazed couple as they run through the room.

“Tony!” Peter repeats, digging his nails into the skin of the alphas wrist as his heels clack against the floor. “What are - where are we going?”

Tony’s answer is to cast back an impish smile at him, teeth bared in mischief. Given what he knows about him, Peter has a feeling Tony is about to pull him into a supply closet for an impromptu blowjob, which - while utterly undignified - he better be on the receiving end of whilst in this dress.

It then comes as a surprise to him when, instead of sneaking down the hall, Tony excitedly tugs him to the double doors leading outside. The first thing Peter notices as they rush through the doors into the cool night air is that it’s raining - heavily. Fat, ice-cold drops of water pelt them, soaking his skin through the flimsy material of his dress, the grass slippery under his heels. 

He yells to be overheard from the rain, “Tony Stark, you better have a damn good explanation --”

Tony’s warm lips press against his, abruptly cutting him off. Arms snake low around his waist, pulling their bodies together until there is no space between them. He breaks off their kiss to stare incredulously at the taller man.

“What are you - are you _ crazy _?” Peter demands, but Tony just smiles wider, swiftly leaning in to kiss him again.

“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Tony says, blinking rain out of his eyelashes. “Audrey Hepburn? Kissing in the rain?”

A series of memories cascade behind his eyes, stopping on a sleepy night in bed before his heat, all shy caution and nervous anticipation.

“You...you remembered,” he whispers, licking water from his lips. “You actually remembered that.”

Tony grins, pulling him in closer to whisper in Peters ear, swaying them slightly in the ghost of a slow dance. Something in his chest swells, expanding until it hits the cage of his ribs and ruptures, warmth bleeding inside him. Water pools on his eyelashes and when he blinks it away it’s not just the rain that travels down his cheeks.

“So, what do you think, shortstack - worth getting wet for?”

He nods, raising his arms to wrap them around Tony’s neck, humming low in his throat. He captures Tony’s lips in a bruising kiss, uncaring of how his curls stick to his forehead, or that his outfit is drenched. The rain tastes too good on Tony’s skin for him to care about anything except for the way the alphas chest hitches and how, even in the rain out in the open, he feels utterly enveloped by him.

“Definitely worth it,” Peter confirms softly in the space between their lips. 

Later, when Tony peels him out of his dress in the privacy of his bedroom he can’t find it within himself to be even remotely mad, heart buoyant with something else as Tony wraps him up in a fluffy towel, placing tender kisses all over his bare skin. 

It’s the best night of his life.

* * *

Following the Winter Ball, there’s only a few days until school breaks for the holidays, and the campus is decked out for winter. The cold season has wormed its way in through every classroom, every blade of grass, and the football players have given way to ice-skaters and gorgeous lights hang on every tree, carols in the air as it seeps out of headphones and car radios. 

Tony isn’t a huge fan of the cold, but today the weather isn’t too bad. The sky is a sheet of white and there’s residual snow from the fall a few days ago, but the air is milder now. 

“I don’t know, I just think maybe I should quit the team-”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tony scoffs, as he and Bruce head towards the square. “You’re a beast when you’re on the field, we need you for next season.”

Bruce frowns. “But I don’t really have any other friends on the team apart from you-”

“Why would you need anyone else?” Tony quips easily, “I guarantee, everyone else is subpar.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything to that, just wipes at a smudge on his glasses which actually makes it worse. “I guess, for now,” he decides, still sounding unsure. “But uh- Tony, I wanted to ask, is it- about you and Peter? Is that true? I wanted to ask, but there’s been so many rumours and-”

“Yeah, we’re dating,” Tony grins, relishing in the fact that he can confirm that now, “haven’t you heard? An official power couple. I have to get past his ego a couple of times a day, but other than that,” he snaps his fingers, “we’re very happy.”

“_His _ego?” Bruce mutters, almost to himself, before Tony shoves out an arm to stop him. It hits Bruce in the chest and he nearly doubles over. Tony doesn’t have any time to apologise though, before he drops into an excited whisper.

“_There? _See?” Tony points towards the artisan kiosk tucked just outside of the cold. “He gives me hell for it, but this is why I’m always late. How could I resist that view?”

Bruce doesn’t love ogling people really, but it’s hard to deny that Peter Parker is a vision. Tony grins, reading his mind. Peter’s waiting in the queue, silhouetted against the wood of the cafe. 

Tony barely resists the urge to wolf whistle, because Peter _ really _ doesn’t like that. But he can still look his fill. He has the most gorgeous omega in the entire world. Peter’s in a cerulean mini-skirt, with matching suspenders that go over a white, ruffled chiffon shirt ( _ don’t _ ask Tony why he can suddenly name which designer it is. Peter will go on and _ on _). There’s a knit white beret perched on the back of his head, his curls perfectly styled to look completely effortless. 

His white, thigh high socks make Tony’s mouth water, as they peak out above the grey knee high boots. There’s a tantalising strip of milky white thigh visible before the cut of his skin-tight skirt, and he looks like an embodiment of winter itself.

That’s probably the point, Tony thinks. Seasonal outfits, afterall. The frosty blue and the snow-white of the shirt and hat, the woolen grey of the boots, Peter looks like a winter fairy, waltzing into campus to the tune of the nutcracker with a flurry of snowflakes behind him.

As he and Bruce get closer he can see, in fact, that Peter’s earrings are snowflakes. They dangle below his lobes and sparkle silver.

“My festive shortstack,” Tony grins, sweeping Peter up into a bear hug that lifts him clear off the ground as the omega squawks in distress. 

“Put me _ down, _brute! Tony, how many times!” Peter whines, but stands mollified once Tony sets him back on the feet, accepting the loving kiss on the lips when Tony tugs him in by the straps of his suspenders. 

Bruce looks away when Tony’s fingers tighten around the suspenders, tugging Peter closer- their kiss deepening. Peter lets out a little moan and Bruce clears his throat, cheeks aflame.

Tony groans, but obligingly pulls away. “Baby, c’mon, this is Bruce, he’s joining the frat.” 

Bruce pushes his glasses up his face and blushes when Peter looks at him. “H-hi,” he says lamley, half waving one hand. 

Peter smiles, lips a little swollen but still shiny, and his cheeks have been swept with glittered highlighter. “Nice to meet you, Bruce. But do yourself a favour and don’t join that fraternity. They never wipe the counters. It’s super gross.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bruce promises, as the three of them head to the front of the line. 

“Ah, shit,” Tony mutters to Bruce under his breath, “try to remember he isn’t always like this.”

Bruce looks nervous. “What, why-”

“What’ll it be?” The chirpy barista beams, a young alpha with big eyes. He stumbles a little over his own feet when he sees Peter, but Tony’s long use to that reaction. 

That’s not what worries him. 

Peter smiles sweetly. “I’ll have a trenta, no foam, no fat, five shot, mocha-double-chocolate frappuccino with a caramel drizzle. Extra nutmeg and no cinnamon and only a shot of 2% milk and creamer. And _ no foam.” _”

Tony winces, Bruce stares, the barista blinks.

“W-what?” He laughs weakly, “that’s not a real drink…”

Peter’s eyes go sharp. “_Excuse me? _Did I stutter? I said I’ll have a trenta, no foam, no fat, five shot, mocha-double chocolate frappuccino with a caramel drizzle. Extra nutmeg, no cinnamon and a shot of 2% milk and creamer. Capiche?”

The barista looks helplessly from Peter to Tony. “I don’t- I don’t know how to make that. What would you like, sir?” He asks, turning to Tony instead.

“_Excuse me!” _Peter snaps, clicking his fingers, “he doesn’t want anything! What he wants is for you to make me a trenta, no foam, no fat-”

“Princess, baby,” Tony soothes, curling his arm around Peter’s waist and kissing his temple. “It’s okay, don’t worry, shh, just-” he reaches out, a fifty in his palm already, and slips it to the stuttering guy smoothly. “Make it and make it quick.” He advises.

The barista takes the money but looks pale. “I don’t think it’s a real drink-”

“Of course it’s a real drink, you uncultured swine!” Peter cries, stomping his foot, and Tony quickly covers the omega’s mouth with his hand.

“Just do it.” He warns, steering Peter towards one of the tables by his suspenders. Bruce trails after them, looking awed. “Sorry about that,” Tony breezes, once the three of them are seated and Peter’s huffing quietly. “He can be a bit of a drama queen.”

Peter glowers, “I was being _ reasonable, _Tony!” Then he pouts, all pretty and pink lips, “I just want my favourite drink.”

“And you’ll get it.” Tony promises, “I’ll have everyone here fired if I have to.”

Bruce looks between them, and laughs.

Oh. _ Oh. _He gets it now.

He owes Thor $20.

**Author's Note:**

> Halloween's coming and comments are our candy ;)
> 
> If you want to see the incredible edits for this story click [here](https://starkerforlife6969.tumblr.com/post/187964296035/hey-baby-slip-between-my-beta-pleats-and-get-to) (you'll see some fantastic edits made by @darker-soft-starker). 
> 
> If you want to follow either of us, here are our tumblrs: [darker-soft-starker](https://darker-soft-starker.tumblr.com) and [starkerforlife6969](https://starkerforlife6969.tumblr.com) We are always keen to make new friends.
> 
> (Also, a little note from starkerforlife6969 to darker-soft-starker, you are an amazing writer and I am so honoured that we could do this together. You are a genius and a god send and I know I say it to you all the time, but you are fantastic. Thank you for being you xxx)


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